


The Choices We Make

by toggledog



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Daredevil Spoilers, F/M, Gang Rape, M/M, Male Friendship, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Verbal Humiliation, Violence, Whump, episode AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-04 08:23:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4130955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toggledog/pseuds/toggledog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three disgruntled police officers decide that the best way to 'get to' Wilson Fisk, is to kidnap, violate and murder his most valued second-in-command, Wesley (as well as film it, for extra humiliation value).</p>
<p>They didn't count on the Devil of Hell's Kitchen interceding, before they could finish the job. Nor could they anticipate Fisk's fury, upon discovering what happened to his good friend.</p>
<p>Set during Episode 11, although an AU, of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for gang rape, in this chapter.
> 
> This is a fill for a kinkmeme prompt: http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/1742.html?thread=3787726#cmt3787726

“Do you remember who came to visit you?” Wesley deliberately moderated his tone, to sound gentle, warm.

“A man. Black man.” the elderly voice spoke down the other end of the line. “Don't remember his name. A journalist. Yes, I'm sure of it.”

Control, Wesley told himself, deliberately slowing the sudden increase in pulse that this news caused. It was now clear who had been snooping. And who needed to be stopped.

Even so (he afforded himself a momentary glance back, to the room where Wilson kept a constant vigil, by Vanessa's bedside) there was no need to get his friend involved. Not when he could resolve this, himself.

He bade farewell to Marlene, grabbed a pistol from one of the men guarding Vanessa, and swiftly departed the corridor, thinking more about his friend and employer, as he made his way out of the hospital. Yes, this would be dealt with tact, and brutal lethality. Wilson need not know about it. Following his girlfriend's poisoning, there was no need for him to be upset, further.

No, Wilson had suffered enough, for one day.

Moving swiftly through the hospital basement car park, Wesley reached his own car and pointed the inhibitor at it, disabling the locks, before climbing inside and closing the door behind himself.

As he heard the distinct click of the gun hammer, before the feeling of distinct pressure on the back of his head, he instantly inwardly berated himself for being so careless. Usually, he was very cognizant of his surroundings, always observant for trouble. This was incredibly important, when it came to keeping his employer invulnerable.

Only, all of this nonsense with Ben Urich, had temporarily frazzled his mind, causing him to make such a profound mistake.

One he feared that he would pay dearly for.

“Take out your weapon, now and place it on the dashboard.” A voice, behind him, ordered.

Wesley knew not to argue. He reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out the pistol, placing it on the dashboard. In that instant, the passenger door opened, and another, masked man sat beside himself.

“Whatever this is about, I'm sure we can come to some sort of understanding.” He wasn't going to add that, given the nature of Wilson Fisk, these men, whoever they were, were incredibly naive and stupid.

“Lean forward,” the man beside him picked up his own gun and pointed it at him. Wesley hesitated, only momentarily. It was enough to earn a smack to the mouth. Not swift enough to draw blood; more a reminder as to who had the control now. Wesley felt his heart rate now start to increase, a little.

“My employer...” He began, only to be cut off with another smack. Harder, this time. He licked his bottom lip, noting the coppery taste of his own blood.

“Shut the fuck up!” the man shouted, behind him, as the one to his side yanked him forward with one hand, while the other grabbed his hands, pulling them painfully behind his back. Within seconds, he felt the bite of metal around his wrists, cementing what he had been starting to suspect about his captors.

These men were police officers.

“What are you planning to-?” That was when he felt the ligature go around his neck, placing instant, painful pressure, cutting off his breathing. Wesley tried to scream in horror, kicking his legs out, desperately. He was going to die. Alone, in the hands of two men, unworthy of the honour of killing him. He tried, unsuccessfully, to scream once more, thrashing around in panic, managing to slam his knee, painfully in the drivers door. The other hit the horn. His brain started to shriek for oxygen. Unlike many in Wilson's operation, Wesley was not adept at self defence, relying on his brains, to extract himself from difficult situations. Only, his brain could not help him, now, was merely focused on the lack of oxygen,the build up of carbon dioxide. He felt his movements start to become sluggish.

_No, no no no no._

He gave one last burst of movement, now attempting to swing his leg to the side, and kick at the one next to himself.

_Not like this not like this._

“Sh... sh....”

He felt fingers on his face, soft, almost delicate in their movements.

Black dots filled his vision. He felt himself disappear down, as though he was at the end of a very long well, desperate to clamber back up-

-He gasped, his throat feeling as though every breath had to negotiate glass shards that were wedged into his upper airways.

“Well well, look who's awake.” A voice said.

Wesley rolled over onto his side, coughing. His inability to move his hands confirmed that he was still handcuffed. He could feel cold concrete under his knees, hear a police siren, in the far distance. He was certain that it wasn't coming for him. One question lingered; why was he still alive?

Finally, the coughing attack cleared, and he was able to better focus on his surroundings. They were slightly blurred, which meant that he had, at some point, lost his glasses. His mind went, incongruently, to the pretty blind lawyer that he had hired, recently. He recalled how, after meeting him, he had pondered upon the colour of those eyes, underneath the dark glasses.

Hands suddenly dug painfully into his hair, forcing his head back. Wesley shivered, realising, for the first time that they had removed his coat.

“What is it that you want?” His voice, the tool that he usually used, to his benefit, was now failing him.

The man above him was tall, over six foot, wore all black, including a balaclava that did not permit any facial identification, and was painfully thin. He looked to the room beyond. They appeared to be in some abandoned warehouse. The floor was littered with broken wood boards, fallen down concrete and various other rubbish, the peeling walls graffittid. One particularly gifted artist, had drawn a rather vivid rendering of Captain America, with his pants to his knees, taking it from behind, by Iron Man. If the situation wasn't so dire, Wesley would joyfully recount it to Wilson. It would give him great pleasure, to see the man the laugh. He needed more laughter in his life.

He counted three men. The one holding his hair, the junkie directly before him, and another, standing a little further back. All wore all black. He wondered if it was some sort of reference to the masked idiot that was causing so much trouble. Perhaps they intended to throw him off track, as to who they were working with. Wesley was smart enough, however, to recognise that the masked man undoubtedly worked alone.

There was something else; a noise. Whiring of some kind, to his far right. Familiar, only he couldn't quite place where he'd heard it.

“Here's what's going to happen,” the one before him patted his cheek, in an almost paternalistic fashion that made Wesley want to spit in his face. However, he would not do that. It was undignified.

“Do what we want and we won't maim you.”

“Alright,” sounded fair enough to Wesley. “What is it that you want me to do?”

The man before him undid his fly, taking out his erect penis. Wesley felt himself go cold all over, as though his entire body had been doused with icy water.

“No,” he said, simply.

“No teeth,” the man ordered. “Or we'll punch them out of your mouth.”

“If I refuse?” His voice was shaking, a little. This was unacceptable.

“Then you die. Who will Wilson Fisk turn to then, to solve all of his problems?”

Wesley closed his eyes. It took only a brief moment, to accept his fate. He opened his mouth, gagging as he felt the man's penis be unceremoniously shoved in. It wasn't a problem, he told himself. After all, he'd done this before, been in this very position. Only, those times, he'd wanted it, had craved the power he felt over the other men. However, now, he could not switch off the feeling of utter humiliation and debasement, heightened by the fact that he was sure that this was exactly how they wanted him to feel.

“Yeah, bitch has done this before,” the man holding his hair shouted.

Wesley started to move his head faster, deliberately using his tongue and lips, simply wanting it to be over. The man before him started to grunt.

“Wish Wilson Fisk was here to see you now,” the one in front of him now said. “Little bitch boy.”

Wesley told himself that he was a man of principle. He would do this, for Wilson. After all, they were right. Wilson needed him.

The man before him suddenly, abruptly pulled out. Wesley gasped, momentarily bewildered, before he felt the man's release hit him on his cheek. He cried out in horror, his debasement now utterly complete. Wesley simply wanted to curl up into a ball, only the others weren't finished with him. The one to the back of his first rapist stepped forward, unzipping his fly, and fishing out his erect penis.

Of course, he should have guessed that they would not be pleased until they all had a turn, he thought, with almost dark humour. As the man started to rape his mouth, he tried to block out the laughter around him, the comments

“Stupid whore!”

“Fisk is gonna be pretty upset, once he knows what we did to his little bum boy, before we killed him.”

That was when Wesley realised the truth. This wasn't about him. It was about Wilson. Even his own rape (and presumably murder) was just a way to intimidate the great man. He supposed he should feel a little indignant about that. A part of him felt an odd relief. Of all people, they'd chosen him, to degrade.

Him. And not say, Vanessa.

The man groaned and Wesley felt the tangy bitterness of his seed enter his mouth. He instantly began to cough.

“Aw! Don't like it sweety?” The man laughed.

“You're up,” the one before him said, to the one holding his hair.

“Good,” Wesley felt a sharp push to his back and found himself falling forward. He moved his head to the side, as he hit the ground, to avoid smashing his nose. “I want his ass.”

At this, Wesley forgot all decorum, he screamed, struggled. This only caused laughter and beratement, from the three others.

“Don't think he likes that idea,” the one who was holding his left shoulder to the ground, said.

“Too bad,” the man said, reaching around Wesley's front to undo his belt.

“After you, I think I'll have a go,” Said shoulder-to-the-ground guy. “After all, Wilson will want to know his bum boy had a good time before he died, won't he?”

All three laughed.

Wesley cried out, this time more in fury than fear, as his belt, and zip was undone, before his pants and boxers were pulled down to his knees.

“What do you think these are worth?” Said the one pulling his jacket vest up, with such force that Wesley heard the fabric tear. The man then grabbed the fabric of his shirt too, tearing it open at the back, as he felt a hand grope his ass.

Worth more than you'd make in a lifetime, he thought, unable to cease the snarl that escaped his lips.

“Ready for a good time, darling?” the one behind him laughed.

Wesley said nothing, wasn't going to lend the proceedings any credibility, with his voice. He felt his legs being spread, followed by burning, searing pain. He'd been penetrated before, but never like this. His partners were always gentle, considerate. This was raw, pure brutality, deliberately using him in a way to cause maximum pain and anguish.

“Yeah, give it to him! Bitch loves it!”

Wesley gasped with every painful thrust, suddenly feeling again that he couldn't breath, the pain was so great that it had somehow undermined his lung function. He could feel hands on his bare back, followed by something else, something sharp. It took a moment, in his haze, to recognise teeth.

“After we're done, bitch. After we're finally fucked out,” (Wesley bristled at such uncouth language, directed at him) “Then we'll finally give you the dignity of a bullet to the head. We'll deliver your body to your bum buddy. And he'll know that you were fucked repeatedly, before you died.”

At that, the man started to breath erratically, his movements faster.

“That's it, bitch. You take it!”

“Fucking faggot!” One of the others said. “Look at him loving it!”

In his fog of pain and shock, Wesley heard the man behind him cry out, then felt warmth within himself. He cringed at the implication.

“Thanks for a great fuck,” he said, as he removed himself, whacking Wesley on the ass.

“Bitch hasn't had enough.”

Wesley moaned, as he felt another man on top of him, another enter him, reopening the wounds that the other man had caused. This one was, if anything, more violent than the first, using his fists and teeth to cause more harm to him, deliberately thrusting hard, causing him to moan with agony. When the man finally finished, Wesley heard sobs. It took him a moment, to realise that they were his own. No, no this didn't happen to him. This wasn't supposed to be.

The third man entered him, and he told himself that it was ok, he'd get through this. Only, he wasn't sure that this was true. He told himself that he could make this sacrifice, for Wilson. For Vanessa. Only, he wasn't sure that that was entirely true, either.

“Yeah, fuck that bitch! Fuck him-”

Movement.

Fast.

Gunfire erupting.

The one on top of him suddenly pulled out, moved off.

Scampering, sounded like, slapping... no, thud thud. Familiar, somehow.

Wesley rolled to the side, curling his legs up, opening his eyes. He couldn't see what was happening.

Someone was crying out, a heavy thud, followed by another.

Someone else was hitting something, the wall, maybe. The noise was ear-splitting loud.

Then silence.

Wesley waited. Footsteps, coming closer.

“It's alright,” the voice was familiar, somehow. “I have the key to your handcuffs. I'm going to undo them, ok?”

Wesley said nothing, felt utterly undone, unable to even think straight. He felt like screaming, like crying. No, no. Control. Must be. in. Control.

He felt someone come closer, then the blessed tightness around his wrists loosen. Wesley brought his hands around to the front, rubbing them. He felt movement to his front, and looked up-

-to the Devil of Hell's Kitchen kneeling before himself.

“You're severely injured. You need to go to a hospital.” That voice, again, familiar.

“I know you,” Wesley said.

The Devil said nothing.

Wesley was suddenly aware of where he was, lying on the ground, with his pants down to his knees, bloodied... violated. The Devil would have... would have seen... He felt his stomach constrict. The Devil jumped back, in time to avoid the vomit that rushed out of Wesley’s mouth.

_Right where they..._

He leant forward and vomited once more, all of the terrible chicken parmigiana hospital food that he'd rushed. before racing up to Wilson, the moment he called him. He felt his stomach contract again, only there was no food left. He started dry heaving.

“I'm sorry I didn't come earlier,” the Devil said, quietly. “I'm sorry they did this to you.”

Wesley felt his face burn. He started to pull up his pants and boxers, with shaking hands.

“Why are you here? Why did you save me?” He asked. “How did you even know-?”

“You're injured,” the Devil repeated. “I'm calling an ambulance.”

Wesley reached out and grabbed his arm. “No ambulance.”

“You need medical attention....”

Wesley was aware of this, on one level. Only he could not accept it, refused to believe that this could happen to him.

“No ambulance,” he repeated, zipping and buttoning his trousers, before gingerly rolling over onto his knees. He could sense the Devil looking at him, debating what to do.

“They'll be up, in a while. I only knocked them out. We need to leave. Can you walk?”

“I'm... not sure...”

“Here, put your arm around me.”

Wesley did as the Devil said, placing his arm around him, and allowing him to lift him. They took two paces, when Wesley quickly swivelled, grabbed the mask and tore it off the the Devil's head, before the man could react.

“Wait, no!” The Devil said, only, strangely, he didn't push Wesley away, his concern for his injuries clearly overcoming his shock at being unmasked.

Wesley could only stare at him, for the first time in his life utterly speechless. Finally, he found the words.

“Well, well. This is the most impressive revelation. Are you even blind, Mr. Murdock?”

Brown eyes. Very pretty. In his mind, prettier than the rest of him, which was some feat, considering. Only, they didn't quite meet Wesley's gaze. He could read fear in the darkened orbs. Though the rest of the Matt Murdock's body was still, his eyes conveyed all that he was feeling.

It was quite lovely, really, Wesley momentarily mused.

“I am most loyal to my friend, and employer. But then, you did save me tonight. Though you still haven't answered why?”

“I wanted to come earlier, I truly did. As soon as I realised they were... I came as soon as I could. But I was... too late to save you from....”

“They were going to kill me. That would have been... very terrible for employer. For that, I have you to thank. I will keep my knowledge of your identity a secret, for now.”

The fear left the lovely eyes, to be replaced by an emotion that he couldn't quite read.

“Ideology-wise, we are completely in conflict with each other. Yet, you still rescued me tonight. Did you truly save me because you have a remarkable hatred of rapists? Or do you have another agenda?”

“No one deserves what they did to you,” Matt said, a small shudder going through his body, so minute, that only one trained in reading such things, as Wesley was, would have seen it. Wesley felt sudden clarity come to him, as though the entire room had been lit up.

“It occurs to me, that we have this both in common, then.”

Matt's more obvious flinch confirmed his suspicions. In the past, even merely hours before, he may have used all of this knowledge, to his advantage. Only now, he felt merely wearied by it and, truth be told, disappointed that the most feared Devil of Hell's Kitchen had, at some time in the past, also been clearly violated. Perhaps this is what set him on the path to begin with?

"There's more," Matt hesitated. "I can hear, a camera. Only I can't locate it. Must be hidden in the walls, somewhere."

Wesley's mind suddenly went back to the whirring sound he heard earlier. He felt his stomach constrict once more.

"We have to leave now. You're injured. But I will come back. I will locate the footage. And I will destroy it."

"No one can see... I can't..."  Wesley took one more step and felt his vision begin to fade, his mind go foggy. He could hear the Devil, Matt, speak to him, and then no more.

*  
It took nearly all of Vanessa's energy to convince Wilson to go get some food. He had not left her bedside for hours and, although she truly loved him dearly, she was starting to feel fatigued. Wilson had assured her that she could sleep, if she wished. Only, she wasn't sure that this was true. Wilson's own guilt seemed to be stopping him from accepting that she was truly going to be alright.

Finally, about half an hour before, he had consented to leaving, for a few minutes. Vanessa leant back in the bed and closed her eyes. She felt the first vestiges of sleep hit, when the door suddenly flew open, before abruptly closing. Wilson came in and sat in the chair beside her. She rolled over to see him. His face was ashen.

“What's wrong?” She asked, sitting up, in the bed. It had to be something major, to cause such a reaction, from the usual unflappable man.

For a moment, the brown eyes skittered towards her, then focused on the floor.

“Wilson?” She rolled over and reached for his hand. It felt very cold, clammy.

“Wilson, it's ok. Tell me.”

“Wesley... “ He said the word, as though he could barely get it out. Wilson rarely mentioned his assistant by name, but Vanessa knew he was incredibly fond of him. “He's... in surgery, right now. A.. nurse found him, in his car. Outside.”

“What happened?”

Wilson hesitated. “He was beaten.”

Finally, his eyes met hers, wounded, the eyes of a person who had seen deep into the devil's lair, and barely escaped.

“They say he'll pull through.”

“Oh, Wilson,” She scooted further forward, so she could lift his hand, kiss his knuckles.

“There's more...” Wilson let out a deep, shaky breath. “he was also... raped. They say there was more than one perpetrator.”

Vanessa could not help the gasp that escaped her mouth.

_Poor Wesley..._

No one deserved such a travesty, she told herself. Beyond that, she had actually liked him. In the few dealings with him, he had been unfailingly polite and clever, with a clear admiration, respect, and yes, even love for his boss. She also found him funny, in a low key, dry kind of way.

_How did this happen?_

“I think it was a sign. For me.”

“Oh, Wilson... Do they know who...?”

“He hasn't talked, yet. But when he does. When I found out who. I will find them. And I will make them regret they ever laid a single finger on him.”

Vanessa could see, from his eyes, that he meant every word that he said.

“We will find them, honey,” she said, to the clearly wounded man before her. “We will make them pay.”

Tbc...


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who had read, reviewed, kudo'd and bookmarked. :)
> 
> I have a fair idea where I'm going with this, to an extent. 
> 
> Although one of the tags is Matt/Wesley, I'm hoping to add it in, at some point, a long way down the track. Clearly, neither are up for a relationship, at this point (particularly Wesley).

Wilson gripped the handle of the door leading out of Vanessa's room, before hesitating, once more.

“I'll be fine,” she spoke, from the bed, behind him. “Go to him. He needs you now.”

“I'll be back, soon,” Wilson said.

As he opened the door, stepped out and walked up the corridor, to the elevator, he pondered his next action. The irony was, that while he was good at envisioning the overall picture, Wesley was the expert at the minor steps in-between, organising the links in the much bigger chain. Only, this time, the overall picture was about Wesley, and Fisk, for the first time in a long while, felt a little daunted as to how to continue.

Certainly, he thought, pressing the number to Wesley's floor, and allowing the elevator doors to close before him, there was no doubt that he would find those who had harmed his friend. He simply had to be cautious. If word got out that his second-in-command had been viciously gang raped, it would decrease their standing, in the eyes of their enemies. Wilson didn't wish this to be so. He certainly didn't feel that Wesley was in any way diminished by what happened. But, unfortunately, he mused, as the elevator doors opened. Life did not always prove to be just. That was simply the way it worked.

_But I will make it just. Even when life tries to fight against me, I will turn it to my advantage, as I always do._

Feeling a little stronger, he moved swiftly up the following corridor, to the nurses station.

“James Wesley,” he said, to the rather doe eyed woman, behind the counter. “I am told he is out of surgery. Is it possible to speak to his doctor?”

It had been the doctor, herself, who had called Wilson, on his business mobile, to inform him of Wesley's arrival at the hospital. As it turned out, Wesley had placed Wilson as his medical proxy. The doctor explained that, given the nature of Wesley's injuries, she felt it just to talk to him herself, rather than allow a nurse to do it. Wilson was grateful for such sensitivity.

“One second,” the nurse said, picking up the telephone next to the computer. Wilson started tapping on the lacquered wood, feeling the apprehension rise in his body, as the nurse made the enquires.

Wesley's doctor had not been bought by him, which, for perhaps the first time, he felt was a positive thing. He could count someone not on the payroll to have more discretion, as a medical professional, than one who was willing to sell out their professional standing.

“Please sit down,” the nurse said, hanging up the phone. “Doctor Santiago will be with you shortly.”

Wilson slumped down in the uncomfortable plastic chair, opposite the nurses station, feeling his heart pound in his chest, his hands start to shake.

Calm, he told himself. You need to stay calm.

He had always, secretly, been impressed by how Wesley was able to juggle so many factors, and yet still maintain his calm. In fact, if it wasn't for his second-in-command, he doubted that his business interests would operate as effectively as they did.

“Have you ever told him?” Vanessa had asked him, shortly before he got word that Wesley was out of surgery.

Wilson now felt guilt stab at his stomach. No, as much as he admired Wesley's professionalism and whip-smart tactics, he never actually thanked him for it. But then, Wesley had never expected thanks either.

A short, dark-haired woman walked up the hall towards him. She still wore her surgical scrubs.

“Mr Fisk? I'm Doctor Santiago.”

Wilson had previously only spoken to her over the phone. This was not the picture that Wilson had in his mind, of her. For one thing, she looked rather young, to be a doctor.

“How about we get off this main thoroughfare, to somewhere more private?”

“Yes, thank you,” he said, allowing her to lead him up the hall, into a room to the left. They entered a small office, with walls lined with medical books. A computer, seated upon a desk, took up the middle of the room; a trolley, baring an electronic blood pressure cuff and various other medical equipment, sat beside it. Doctor Santiago pulled out the office chair from behind the desk, gesturing for Wilson to sit down on the chair seated other side. He did as she beckoned.

“The surgery has gone well. James is sleeping now, but we expect him to wake up shortly.”

James. Wesley would be amused. No one ever called him James, apart from Wilson's own mother.

“Tell me everything,” Wilson said. “I need to know what was done to him.”

Doctor Santiago fixed her dark eyes on him. There was a certain level of brittleness in them, which he find rather admirable.

“In terms of his superficial injuries, James suffered some abrasions and contusions, but, thankfully no fractures, internal haemorrhage, or damaged organs. We also gave a CAT scan, to rule out any head trauma.”

Wilson swallowed, knowing that the worst was to come.

“There is some bruising around his trachea, suggesting that he was strangled, at least to the point of unconsciousness, but that will go down, also. Luckily, no further damage was done there.”

“What about... about the sexual assault?” He noted her momentary hesitation. “It's ok. You can tell me the worst of it.”

She did not hesitate, simply continued to hold him in her steely gaze. “There was extensive tearing to his rectum and colon, but his bowel was not perforated. I had to put in sixteen stitches. But, considering, extensive surgery was not needed. Upon your request, we performed a rape kit. We managed to collect a lot of evidence; saliva, foreign hairs, and semen samples of more than one individual. We have sent them of for testing. There were also bite marks, which we appropriately photographed.”

The people who hurt him don't even care, Wilson thought, with some shock. It's as though they want to be caught, for everyone to know what they did.

_How they bested him._

_How they attempted to humiliate me, through him. Because that was the ultimate reason, wasn't it?_

“Are you alright, Mr Fisk?” Doctor Santiago said, clearly noting the sudden shudder of rage running through his frame, that he was unable to prevent.

_Wesley is worth more to me, than simply as a tool, for others to use, to get to me._

“Yes,” he deliberately forced himself back into control. “Please continue.”

“We also checked for any STDs. Results will be back in a day, or so, and James will have to be retested for HIV in six months and a year.”

STDs. Wilson felt his stomach lurch. He hadn't even considered that.

“Physically, James will be alright. He will heal from his injuries. We will limit his food intake. No solids for at least two weeks. The stitches are dissolvable, so he doesn't need to come back and get them taken out. We will see his pain is under proper control.” She paused. “In these kinds of attacks, our main concern is more about the psychological trauma. I have already organised for a sexual trauma counsellor to speak to him, in the next day or so.”

Sexual assault counsellor. Wilson felt his mind whirling. Too much information, to fast.

He stood up. “Thank you. I wish to see him, if that's alright.”

For a moment, she could see her professionalism warring with her humanity.

“He is resting, but I see no reason why you can't have a quick visit.”

*

Wesley lay on his stomach, a hospital blanket draped over the length of his body, his head to the side, facing the door. One arm was curled up, on top of the blanket. A cannula, in the back of his hand, was attached to a drip, that was, in turn, hooked onto a machine, that stood beside the bed. The rather expensive looking piece of hospital equipment looked somewhat like an upright laptop, with wires and chords connected all around the monitor, which, in turn, displayed a bunch of numbers, the meaning of which were incomprehensible, to Wilson. He closed the door behind himself and then grabbed the chair that sat against the wall, pulling it closer to Wesley's bed. For a moment, as he sat down, he simply watched his friend's face, lax with sleep, undisturbed by whatever horrors would haunt him, upon awakening.

He felt as though everything was starting to fall apart. Madam Chow was gone and the Devil of Hell's Kitchen seemed to be single-handedly involving himself in every operation that Wilson set up. At this point, perhaps it would have been interesting to see how the pesky Russians dealt with matters. Now, with what happened to Wesley, clearly, some people were starting to break free from their self-appointed binds and, furthermore, were turning against him.

This was unacceptable.

He was strong. A king.

No, he would gain his kingdom back. And he would show all who went against him, what he did to traitors. Starting with those who had hurt Wesley.

Wesley slowly opened his eyes, closed them, opened them again.

“Wesley...” He forced his lips up into a smile.

“Sir...” Wesley closed his eyes, sounding drowsy. “I apologise for my current... I will be back at full operational capacity, soon.”

Wilson blinked. Of all the things for Wesley to say, upon awakening, he did not expect this. He reached across and very tenderly took his hand, mindful of the cannula.

“Do you know who did this to you?”

“There were three. They wore balaclavas, so I didn't see their faces. They were police officers, I'm sure of it.”

Well well, this as also rather unexpected.

“I'm sorry, sir. I was... distracted. Didn't pay enough attention to my surroundings.”

“No,” he said, quietly. “You didn't... I will find them, Wesley, I will make them pay for what they did to you.”

“We were in a warehouse of some sort. I'm sorry, sir. I should have more information to give you. When I'm more clear in the head, I'll probably be able to...”

Why does he keep apologising? Wilson thought.

“Don't worry about that,” Wilson said. “I'll be able to find them, even if I have to tear up Hell's Kitchen to do it. You rest. It will all be taken care of.”

*

Wilson was half way back to Vanessa's room, when he heard his mobile ring. He pulled it open, to see that his mother was calling.

*  
Three days later, Wilson was back in the tiny office, with Doctor Santiago. His innards were twisting with guilt, for not visiting Wesley, in that time. He had been... preoccupied... by a certain journalist, who seemed to think that going after his mother was a just thing to do.

He had lethally proved Ben Urich wrong.

In terms of his subtle investigations into Wesley’s attackers, he'd come up with little, so far. It was starting to become more and more certain that they'd left the city, perhaps even the country. If Wesley, himself, were looking into it, he was certain that they'd be found, by now. However, Wilson had decided that he would not involve Wesley in any fashion, until his attackers were found.

Then Wesley would have full say on what to do with them, what punishment is apt.

“He is recuperating,” she said. “We took him off the morphine drip yesterday. He's also able to walk around a little. So yes, physically, he's recovering It's his psychological state that I'm concerned about. Although he seems rather calm, in the daytime, at night, he often screams in his sleep, so much so, that last night he had to be sedated. Often times, when he is resting, he will weep.”

Fisk closed his eyes, feeling tears spring in his eyelids.

“He has turned down any attempts at counselling. I would suggest you try and encourage him to at least consider it. It would be of great benefit to him.”

Counselling? Fisk almost sniggered at that idea, but quickly kept his composure.

“Thank you.”

*

This time, Wesley was seated up in his bed, a pad and pen in hand.

“Hello, sir,” he said, grinning.

“What are you doing?” Wilson asked, pulling up a chair and sitting down.

“I am not allowed my laptop, so I requested a pen and pad, instead. It is very difficult for me to continue with helping your operations from here, but I have written a few notes-”

“Wesley, stop!” He said, so forcefully, that his friend flinched, clearly startled.

“Is anything wrong, sir?”

“There is no need for you to... continue with your services with me. For now!” He said, suddenly noting the hurt and panic appearing Wesley's eyes.

“I assure you, sir, that I am completely functional in being able to-”

“Not that I don't appreciate your help. But, at this moment, all I want is for you to recuperate.”

“I'm fine.” There was a sudden coldness in Wesley's eyes, that dared him to say different. Any other man would have backed down from the steely gaze.

“You have been sexually assaulted-”

“Yes, I remember,” Wesley said, in a cold tone that he had never used before, with Wilson.

Wilson considered his next sentence. “I consider you a friend.”

“And I, you sir.”

Wilson suddenly felt a tightening of his stomach.

_I'm not very good, at this kind of talk. You know this, Wesley._

“You are an invaluable part of my organisation, and life,” he stuttered, feeling distinctly awkward. “Things have, admittedly, been harder, without you. But I would not consider myself a good friend, if I didn't allow you the time you needed, to recuperate from your injuries.”

All of the coldness went from Wesley's eyes. He nodded.

“How is Vanessa?”

“She is fine. Thank you for asking.”

“I read in the papers about Ben Urich. It seems that someone murdered him. Terrible shock.” Wesley looked Wilson straight in the eye, mouth slightly upturning.

He knows, Wilson thought, feeling not the least bit of surprise.

*

The next day, when he came to visit, Wesley was resting, and quietly weeping. Wilson could only stay for a few minutes, before the sight of his loyal friend's tears drove him from the room.

*

On the fourth day, in hospital, Owlsley came to visit, with a bunch of flowers in hand, and an extremely angry look on his face.

“How are you?” He practically barked at Wesley.

“Couldn't be better,” Wesley said, dryly. “Being orally and anally raped by three complete morons has been the highlight of my week!”

Owlsley winced.

“I'm sorry,” He placed the flowers on the cabinet opposite the bed, next to the bunches from Wilson, Vanessa and Wilson’s mother. “You know I've never been a particularly tactful person. I simply think it's a disgrace that I was not informed about this!”

“Perhaps it shows how my employer truly feels about you. After all, you were the one that organised, with Gao, to poison the wine at the function?”

Judging by the look of pure innocence on his face, Owlsley was as good an actor as he was tactless. “What happened was unfortunate. I dearly hope that we find the culprit responsible.”

He moved to stand over the bed.

“I take it Mr. Fisk is looking into finding the culprits responsible for this travesty?”

Travesty. My brutal gang rape. Wesley couldn't help but smile, at that one.

“Why are you smiling?” Owlsley looked bewildered.

“It seems that my gang rape is an inconvenience to you.”

“Is this what you think of me? I am disgusted by what happened to you and only hope that the perpetrators are found, soon.”

“But it's a great disadvantage to the operations, isn't it? There is no need to berate me. All that you would say I already know, myself. I should not have been so distracted, should have done everything in my power, to stop the attack. I allowed them to rape me.”

Owlsley was now looking at him with an expression that was a mixture of horror and pity.

“There's no need to lie to me, the way you do with my employer. I know that's what you're thinking.”

“Why would I possibly think that?” Owlsley shook his head. “This is beyond my level,” he muttered. “No, I didn't come here to berate you. My anger is at Wilson Fisk for not informing me about this, not you. How can you allow someone to rape you? Do you even understand that it is illogical?” He stopped, seeming to deliberately control his breathing. “No one is blaming you, here.”

Wesley didn't reply. He felt too fatigued to argue the facts, and the reality was that he allowed it to happen, with his incompetence and refusal to fight back. It took the Devil to save him, because he was too pathetic to save himself.

“This will be kept a secret. No one else has to know,” Owlsley hesitated. “I'll allow you to get some rest.”

*

“This is only a temporary arrangement,” Wilson said, closing the door of the apartment behind himself, Wesley and Vanessa.

“I understand,” Wesley said, moving very gingerly and looking, with some interest, at the sparsely furnished lounge room. Watching the slowness of his movements, Wilson clenched his hands into fists.

_Should have found the ones responsible by now! Falling apart. It's all falling apart._

Feeling pressure on his other hand, he glanced down, to see Vanessa uncurl his fingers, to take his hand.

“You can have a look around, get comfortable. I have the ingredients to pumpkin soup.”

“I can assure you, he makes the best pumpkin soup that I have ever tasted,” Vanessa said.

Wesley turned and smiled at both of them, though the warmth didn't reach his eyes.

“You know, I never took you to be a Kurosawa fan,” Vanessa said. “We have The Seven Samurai loaded in the DVD player.”

“Special edition,” Wilson said.

Wesley shot them an odd look. If Wilson was mistaken, it was a look of confusion, as to why they were treating him with such kindness. His mind went to what he knew of Wesley's childhood. His parents had died when he was very little. After that, he was raised by his grandparents, who put him through college. He had met Wilson, when he applied for a job as his personal assistant. Wilson was only starting out, then, but was determined to become something more than the superficial morons around him, who only believed in money, drugs, and sex. It did not take long, before Wilson realised that Wesley clearly shared his vision.

“I'm going to have a look in the rest of the unit.”

“Go ahead,” Vanessa said, smiling.

Both watched him gingerly walk out of the room.

“I'm very worried about him,” Vanessa said. “He seems... disconnected...”

Wilson agreed but felt helpless to know what to do about it. After all, Wesley had suffered from a horrific, brutal crime. How was he supposed to act? If Wesley was hysterical and crying, then Wilson felt he could, oddly enough, deal with it better. No, he truly didn’t know how to respond to the spookily calm, cold, distant man, who screamed in his sleep.

“Come on, let's make some pumpkin soup,” he said to Vanessa, as though tasty food could possibly hold the answers.

*

Half an hour later, the soup was ready. Vanessa and Wilson had spoke very little, in the making of it, the dark haired man, in the other room, in the forefront of both of their thoughts. After inspecting the entire apartment, Wesley had then returned to the lounge. Wilson had then heard the theme music to the Seven Samurai, and was pleased that his gesture was not unwanted.

Wilson ladled some of the soup, from the pan into a bowl and brought it out to the lounge, to a sleeping Wesley curled up on the couch.

_He's not sobbing, at least._

“I'll get a blanket from the room,” Wilson said.

“I'll find a big bowl for the soup, cover it in glad wrap and put it in the fridge,” Vanessa said, after taking the bowl out of his hands.

“Thank you, Vanessa,” He plucked the remote off the coffee table in front of the couch, and switched off the film playing on the plasma television, before walking briskly to the back of the apartment, snatching the duck feather quilt off the bed and then returning to the room.

“Wesley,” he said, kneeling before him. “Wesley.”

Wilson gently shook his shoulder. Wesley suddenly gasped, pulling abruptly away.

“Sorry, I-” Upon seeing the fear in the other's eyes, Wilson also scuttled back.

“I'm sorry, sir. I fell asleep.”

“That’s fine,” he gently placed the quilt on Wesley.

“No, no there's no need-”

“Would you like me to grab the pillow too?”

“Here it is.” Vanessa now stood behind them both, carrying the pillow, from the room.

“Thank you.” As Wilson placed it under Wesley's head, he saw an expression that was very rare, from him, and certainly rarer still, directed at his employer and friend. Disgruntlement.

“With due respect, sir. I am not a child.”

Wilson allowed himself a rare smile.

“I hope that you will try my delicious pumpkin soup. We’ve placed it in the fridge. We'll leave you now, to get some rest. There is a pistol, attached to the underside of the couch, if you need it.”

“Thank you,” Wesley said, closing his eyes.

Wilson looked to Vanessa, who smiled back at him. He stood up and took her hand.

*  
Movement, in the room. Light-footed, slow. Wesley moved quickly, rolling over to the edge of the couch, reaching down and pulling out the gun, from where it had been attached, underneath. He lifted it up, then sighed, upon seeing, in the dusky light, Matt Murdock, in his usual Devil of Hell's Kitchen attire.

“I'm not in the mood for you, tonight,” Wesley said, lowering the weapon.

“I need information,” Matt said.

“There's no need for the mask. I know who you are.”

Matt hesitated, then remove the mask.

“I need to ask about-”

“I think you underestimate our roles in this little caper,” Wesley allowed his irritation to show. “Or, rather, my role, compared to yours. I could hurt you. I really don't want to, but I could. Could hurt those you love. The pretty girl in your office. The friend. The nurse.”

“You will try,” Matt said.

Wesley laughed. “I like you!”

For a moment, Matt said nothing.Wesley could sense that he was being... studied, somehow.

“Maybe you've underestimated your role,” Matt said. “After all, they got to you, didn't they? But it wasn't about you, really. It was about Wilson Fisk. They raped you, to get to him.”

Wesley knew he should have felt anger, at this. Only, it simply produced a weary resignation, within himself. After all, Matt was right. How could anyone take him seriously, as Wilson Fisk's right-hand-man now? How could he possibly threaten someone, as he'd just done to Matt, with the knowledge that he'd allowed three men to forcefully fuck him in the ass and mouth? He winced at such vulgar thoughts, but he had to admit, that it was true.

Wilson was acting incredibly kind towards him, but Wesley suspected there was another agenda. Surely, the man was disgusted by him?

_Stop with such ridiculous thoughts! You're fine. You'll be fine. Nothing is wrong._

He took a deep breath. “How about we play a game? I'll answer a question of yours and you'll answer a question of mine.”

He could see the intelligence in the sightless dark eyes working. “Alright.”

Wesley smiled. “I’ll go first. What made you decide to embark on this little vigilante jaunt, to begin with?”

“There was a little girl. Her dad came into her room every night. I could hear it. I hear... a lot of things. My other senses are... expanded because of my blindness.”

“Fascinating,” Wesley said.

“I decided that I wasn't going to let it happen, any more, so I took action,” Matt said.

“I take it, that 'action' involved your fists and threats?”

“It worked. He didn't touch her again.”

“Tell me, how different are you, truly, from me, or my employer?”

Matt momentarily stiffened. “Your turn. Why did Wilson Fisk kill Ben Urich?”

Wesley considered how much information to give.

“Mr. Urich decided to talk to a... very close person to my employer. My employer didn't appreciate it.”

Matt abruptly laughed. “That's it? After all Ben was digging up on him, he killed him because he spoke to the 'wrong person'?”

“Yes, that is it,” Wesley said, with a finality to his tone. “My turn. What happened to you? You saved the little girl, because you couldn't bare what happened to you, happening to others. That's why you constantly disrupted the Russian's human trafficking operations. That's why you rescued me, despite us being enemies.”

“I'm not answering that.”

“Now, that is truly unfair. You knew what they were doing to me. You told me. Even if you couldn't see it. You would have heard it.”

A light tremble was overtaking Matt's body.

“I'm sorry-”

“Yes, I've already heard it. You're sorry you didn't come sooner. When should you have come, Mr Murdock, Mr Devil? When they were forcing themselves into my mouth? Ejaculating on my face and in my mouth? Telling me I was a whore? Would that have been a good time? Or perhaps before, yes before might have been good, before they raped me until I bled, until I needed sixteen stitches. Why rescue me at all, when you came after the damage was already done?”

No no no, he abruptly stopped talking. His heart was racing so hard, it felt like it was going to leap out of his chest. His hands shook. He could feel perspiration run down his forehead. He'd finally done it. He'd lost control. In the days, following the attack, he kept telling himself that it didn't matter. What happened, happened. There was no need to allow his emotions to overtake.

Only, now, he'd gone beyond that, he'd failed himself.

And Matt Murdock, with his enhanced senses, was, undoubtedly, aware of the sudden, unfathomable terror rushing through his body, which, in turn, only served to add to his humiliation.

“I'm so sorry. I'll go.” Matt put the mask back on, and was gone before Wesley could scarcely blink.

 

Tbc...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to all reading, kudoing etc. :)
> 
> I feel quite awful for putting Wesley, who is my fave, through all of this...

Vanessa awoke to the lack of the usual warmth beside her. She sat up and reached for the dressing gown at the end of the bed, shrugging it on, before climbing out of the warm covers. Stepping out of the room, she soon located Wilson at the dining table, a cup of coffee in his hand. Upon seeing her, his lips crinkled up into a smile. Vanessa came over and placed her arms around his neck, kissing the top of his head.

“It will be alright,” she whispered. “We'll be alright.”

She had not seen much of Wilson, in the past few weeks. When she did, he was clearly haunted, distracted. Vanessa suspected that what happened to Wesley was merely only part of what was paining him.

Wilson liked to keep secrets.

She understood about secrets.

He had told her that he'd never lie to her. And he hadn't. He'd answered every question she'd ever asked of him. But she knew not to push it, knew that a man was allowed his layers.

As she sat down opposite him, he stood up, and walked through the archway, to the left, to the kitchen.

“Scrambled eggs and bacon,” he called out, from the other room.

“Sounds divine.”

She waited until he came back into the room, bearing a plate of food, before speaking.

“It wasn't until last night, that I realised how truly much you care for him.”

“There are only two people that I trust,” he said, placing the porcelain and cutlery in front of her. “You are one of them.”

She nodded, understanding.

In that instance, his mobile buzzed. Wilson took it out of his pocket, looked at it.

“We have a package.”

Vanessa picked up her fork and started to dig into the bacon. It was crispy, perfection. She could hear his footsteps, moving through the other room, to his front door. It opened and he spoke briefly to the man, on the other end. What was his name? She couldn't remember. The underling to Wesley. Wesley two.

The sound of footsteps, back to the dining room.

“You should have been a chef,” she said, as he returned to the room, a distinct frown marring his features. “What's wrong?”

“It's from China.”

He tore open the package. Half a dozen discs fell out, onto the dining room table.

“What is it?” She admitted some mystification.

“It's from Madam Gao,” he said, holding a piece of paper in his hand.

“What does it say?”

“It's written in Chinese.”

“Can you interpret it?” She knew he spoke it, but wasn't sure the level of his skills.

“'These belong to you,'” he began. “'We intercepted them, before they were sent to their intended destinations, other than yourself,” he paused. “You will receive another, bigger package tomorrow.”

“Intended destinations?” She picked up one of the discs, feeling an odd, sour taste in her mouth.

“There's more,” he said, so abruptly, that her head snapped up towards him. “'Make sure your loyal second-in-command, is there to see the second package. He would be much appreciative.'”

The sour taste increased, metallic, almost blood-like.

“What does it mean?”

For a moment, Wilson simply stood, stock still. He then placed the letter on the table, and picked up one of the discs.

“We need to see what's on it.”

Vanessa took his hand, and allowed him to lead her to the lounge room. She did not know this Madam Gao, only what Wilson had told her about her. Although he always spoke about her in respectful tones, she sensed fear, also.

She sat down in the lounge chair, and watched, as he switched on the television. Her stomach twisted, almost painfully, as though a knife had been stabbed into her gut and was turning, slowly.

He then placed the DVD in the player and pressed 'Play' on the remote.

Static, followed by a scene in a warehouse. A long shot, Wesley on his knees, hands cuffed behind himself; one man stood behind him, holding his head up by his hair. A third man stood behind.

It was the actions of the second man, standing before the kneeling Wesley that made Vanessa gasp, place her hand over her mouth.

“Oh my god!” She said.

“Yeah, bitch has done this before!” The third man said.

Wilson roared, picked up the coffee table, and overturned it.

“I'll turn it off-” she reached for the remote, now resting, in a mess of magazines, and broken glass, on the ground.

“No,” Wilson grabbed her hand. “I need to keep watching,”

She heard Wesley cry out, in clear disgust. She glanced up, catching what was happening on the screen. A word coming to her mind, a vulgar word, associated with vulgar acts, one that an ex-partner had once asked of her, right before she coldly rejected him. She felt her stomach twist once more, painfully, at the sight of these men humiliating Wesley in such a way.

“Need to see what they did to him,” Wilson said.

“I- I can't watch,” she turned, and buried her face in Wilson's side, tears dampening the fabric of his dressing gown. She couldn’t watch, but she wouldn't leave him, either. An arm went around her shoulders.

Hearing Wesley's degradation was almost as bad as watching it.

_“Stupid whore!”_

_“Fisk is gonna be pretty upset, once he knows what we did to his little bum boy, before we killed him.”_

A tremor went through Wilson. She pressed harder into him, wishing to give him some comfort.

Wilson was stoic, not saying a word, not moving, as the gang rape continued. Vanessa closed her eyes, wishing to block it out, to not hear the horrific scene. She thought of more beautiful times; wandering the art gallery with Wilson, his hand in her hair, his mellifluous voice talking of his love for his city, his need for it to be great, once more.

_“I want his ass.”_

Vanessa moaned. She knew this was going to happen, knew the extent of Wesley's injuries. But she didn't want to believe that. Somewhere, in her naivety, she believed that it would end, after the rape of his mouth.

It continued. She heard them laugh, scold his screams, berate his struggles. There was the sound of tearing cloth.

_“Ready for a good time, darling?”_

Wesley started to scream, broken, disgusted, as one of the men started to grunt.

_“Yeah, give it to him! Bitch loves it!”_

Vanessa had never heard anyone scream like that, almost primal in its horror, an animal, with its leg caught in a trap, desperate to be free.

Beside her, Wilson started to shake. She could hear his broken breaths, an obvious attempt to cease from sobbing. Vanessa placed her arm around him, hugging him tighter.

“I will tear them apart, for this!” Wilson said, his voice cracked with emotion. “I can't.. I can't watch any more.”

Under the cheers, laughter and grunts of his rapists, Vanessa could hear Wesley's sobs and felt her heart break for him.

Wilson picked up the remote, from the ground, and switched it off. Tears ran down his face.

“I’m sorry, I'm sorry.”

“It's alright. It's alright.”

As he continued to sob, she held him to her.

“You will find them,” she said. “They will be held accountable.”

*  
For the first time, since leaving the hospital, Wesley decided to change into one of his suits.

In the hospital, he had simply worn the paper pants and gown given by them. Upon leaving, he had changed into a t-shirt and trousers, given by Wilson. These were certainly not his style. Wilson had, however, been kind enough to bring some of his suits over, from his own apartment, as well as underwear, two new pairs of glasses, and various other pertinent bathroom accessories.

Wesley usually took pride in his grooming habits. The suit had to be ironed with great precision, his teeth brushed for exactly thirty seconds on each tooth. He used the most expensive bathroom products available. When new, better products came in, he was always the first to order them in. Owlsley had once called him a 'preening peacock', which he had taken as a complement.

In the past few days, he felt no need to adopt any grooming habits.

After all, why did it matter? Why did any of it matter?

Today, however, he had woken up, with fresh vigour and purpose. He decided that he'd given enough time, for mourning what had happened to him, and was ready to start being as proactive, as he had been before.

After all, it was only his body. It wasn't as though they'd destroyed his mind, he told himself. It was all a matter of simply focusing on what he had to do next.

So, he'd broken down, the night before. That wouldn't happen again. He'd make sure of it.

The first step to regaining his former efficiency, was to look the part, so he picked the most expensive suit from his wardrobe and changed out of his former clothes.

He now ran his hand down the front of the silk jacket, took his glasses off his bedside cabinet, and stepped in front of the full-length mirror, seeing himself, for the first time since the attack.

Who was he fooling, really? One could wear the suit, but it didn't make them worthy of wearing it. He sighed, took off his glasses, and rubbed his nose. Two weeks ago, he had an identity. He had a purpose. Now, he felt adrift, a single autumn leaf, spun about in aimless direction by the wind. They'd torn apart the psyche of the man named James Wesley, as assuredly as they'd torn the former suit from his body.

He found himself walking out of the room, and onto the balcony, before he even realised he was there. Hells Kitchen spread out before him. Yes, he believed in this place. Not with the astounding conviction of Wilson. But, seeing Wilson's love of his own city, had inspired Wesley.

Only, Wilson deserved more, than a second-in-command who had betrayed him, with his inaction, who could no longer be what he wanted.

The balcony wall wasn't too high. Perhaps this was deliberate, on part of the architect. After all, who wouldn't begrudge one who could no longer offer their services, to the city, in the way that they hoped?

It wasn't serious, he thought, as he scrambled up, to stand on the edge, hand placed against the edge of the building. It felt somewhat exhilarating up there the wind whipping at his hair, chilling his face, the concrete cold beneath his bare feet.

One false step and he would overbalance. Perhaps he would overbalance anyway. Yes, perhaps-

A strong arm reached around his waist. He found himself being drawn back, off the balcony, and then propelled through the air, through the open french windows, to slam his spine, into the back of the couch.

The masked man stood before him. “Two weeks ago, I would have just let you do it.”

“I need to employ better locks,” Wesley said, rolling over and attempting to pick himself up. The masked man lifted him, and placed him, not too daintily, on the couch.

“Why save me now, then? Is it... guilt, perhaps?”

“I came here to give you a warning. Wilson Fisk is going down. I'm still trying to decide whether to let you go down with him.”

“If you're going to give me such threats, at least remove the mask. I know who you are, remember?”

Matt removed the mask. His eyes, so beautifully expressive, displayed pure rage.

“You're angry that I just did something foolish,” Wesley said, with some wonder.

“I guess I expected something better, from you.”

Now Wesley did feel a bud of anger sprout within himself.

“If I had wanted to...that would have taken courage beyond any of your late night shenanigans.”

“No, it takes more not to,” Matt said, eyes still blazing.

Wesley blinked, trying not to show his confusion. Matt's anger at him proved that he didn't wish him to die. This implied some level of care towards his well-being.

“Tell me about Vanessa,” Matt said.

“No.”

“She's an innocent, isn't she?”

“I could have told Wilson Fisk any time, about your identity, and yet I haven't. Why do you think that is?”

“That's why I'm considering not letting you also fall, when Fisk does.”

Wesley could not help but smile, at that. “No, it's our lamentable, sexually abused past that keeps us tethered together. Some pathetic sense of victim unity. Tell me, Mr. Murdock, have you ever considered if the opposite had happened? Say I came across you being gang raped. Do you think I would have saved you? I wouldn't have. You know this.”

“Considering that you once tried to shoot me, yes, I figured that out. It was never about that.”

“If it had been Wilson Fisk, or Vanessa, then I would have done everything in my power to save them, even if it meant my own life. Do you see the difference here? The majority of people, will do anything to help those they love. They can't help the entire world. They know it's not possible. You won't be able to stop every rapist. Or every drug dealer. Particularly by the tactics that you use.”

“I won't stop. I'll never stop.”

“It doesn't work, your way. It never will.”

“And your way does? Strong arming people? Brutal tactics to get what you want?”

“Sometimes violence is a necessary evil. At least my employer and I have an end goal in mind. What's yours, Mr Murdock. You seem to want to destroy my employer, but what after that? You're going to continue to beat up every drug dealer and rapist in the city?”

“You didn't seem to mind my moral ambiguity, when I took out yours.”

This caused Wesley some pause. “And I'm still trying to work out whether it would have been better if you had just let them finish and then kill me.”

Matt didn't speak, for a long time. “I try to believe that every dark person, even Wilson Fisk, has light to them. I see it, in his relationship with Vanessa. It makes it... harder to want vengeance, when she is there, in the picture. You both have such a strong vision for this city. And I can see that you truly believe it. And that you truly care for each other.” He sighed. “I saved you because I heard your cries. I didn't hear the cold, emotionless second to Fisk, I heard a man in severe anguish and dread. And I couldn't allow you to suffer any more, despite who you were.”

Wesley found he couldn’t say any more, had no response. He suddenly felt very tired.

Matt put the mask back on.

“Thank you for saving me,” Wesley whispered.

*

He received the text from Wilson the next day, an invitation to his apartment. He was to be picked up straight away. Wesley, who had slept in his suit, barely had time to change into another, when there was a knock on his door, from the driver. He did not recognise the short, grey-haired man, standing in the hall outside the apartment, and felt some relief. He could not bare the thought of being in the same space as any of his associates. Walking down to the car, he briefly wondered if Wilson had deliberately hired a nobody.

*

Wesley bid farewell at the base of the building and, as per custom, rode the elevator up, by himself. He wasn't sure what this was about, but, surely, it was a sign that Wilson felt he was healed enough to start working for him, again. He did enjoy reading, even watching the odd movie, when time permitted. However, in the past few days, his uncharacteristically overly-active mind had constantly harassed himself. He was desperate for some peace, from it. He had even, in some ways, welcomed the two visits from Matt Murdock. At least he provided a welcome distraction.

The elevator stopped and the doors sprang open. He came out, moving to the steel door before him, and knocking three times. The buzzer sounded and he took out his key, twisting it in the panel on the wall, and turning the handle.

He stepped inside, and froze.

For a moment, he felt unable to comprehend the scene, before himself. An open, wooden crate, large enough to fit human beings inside, sat in the far corner of the room. It did not take long for Wesley to make the connection to the three men, handcuffed, by arms and legs, to each other in front of it, being viciously punched and kicked, by Wilson.

“Wesley,” Wilson ceased in his vicious actions and wiped his brow, smudging blood along his forehead. “Glad you could come.”

Wesley stepped further inside, looking down at the three bloodied, bruised, moaning men.

“Gao found them, in China. I don't know how but she... they're here now.”

One of the men was thin, deathly thin. There was a ripe, almost sickly smell, coming from his body.

“Please... stop...” The man said.

No, the sickly smell wasn't coming from the man's body, it was coming from Wesley, himself. He could feel it, on his skin, could feel the man's breath, waft across his face, the sharp hips slamming into his own with each thrust, the knifelike, excruciating pain, down below. He wasn't in the room, any more, he was back in that warehouse, feeling his body scrape along the concrete floor, the cold on his bare back, as more of his shirt was torn from his body, fingernails cutting him, in their haste, teeth digging into his shoulder, deep, drawing blood.

Wesley could feel his stomach revolting and ran out of the room to the kitchen, reaching the sink, just in time, for the contents of his stomach to spew down into it.

In the background, he could hear Wilson's beating continue, the slaps, the thuds, the screams of the men, Wilson's own roars. Only, he felt disconnected, as though he was hearing the action from a great distance. He wiped his mouth, then stepped back into the room, watching, feeling numb, as Wilson repeatedly stomped on one man's ribs.

Hearing Wesley come back into the room, the larger man stopped, once more.

“What do you want me to do to them? We can do anything you want.”

Wesley considered this. Beat them? Torture them? Stick a sharpened implement inside them, so they could have an approximation as to how he felt, when they forced themselves onto him? Into him?

No. He didn't wish for any of these things to happen. He just wanted them gone, to not have to look at them, be reminded of what they did, how they destroyed him.

Wesley took out the pistol from his pocket, and held it up. Wilson respectfully stepped back.

He just wanted it to stop.

He aimed it at the first man ( _“Wish Wilson Fisk was here to see you now. Little bitch boy.”_ ) and pulled the trigger. Instantly, the other two beside him started to scream, to beg, as the man's head exploded in blood and brain tissue, beside them. Wesley then pointed the gun at the man next to the dead body.

“Please, please I have a family-”

( _“Stupid whore!”_ )

The bullet tore through his jaw. It was clear that he still wasn't dead. Wesley shot him again, this time in the neck. As he started to choke, to bleed out, he pointed the weapon at the next man.

( _“That's it, bitch, you take it!”_ )

Looking into the man's horrified, wide grey eyes, he felt a shock of recognition.

Two months before, this man had come to him. The man had explained that he was being sacked, from the police force. Surely, Wilson Fisk could have some sway, in him keeping his job?

Wesley already knew of the man's spiralling drug habit. He had explained, quite carefully, that Wilson Fisk didn't go to the aid of junkies. The man had then been quite incensed, had called Wesley Wilson's “little bitch boy.”

At the time, Wesley had thought nothing of it.

For a long moment, both looked at each other, the only sound in the room, the struggled breathing of the dying man next to him. Wesley turned the gun to the man and shot him in the head, instantly quietening him.

He then turned the gun on the third man, once more ( _“Thanks for the great fuck.”_ ).

“No, please!”

Wesley shot him three times in the face, before dropping the gun to the ground.

He looked down and saw that his hands were shaking.

“Wesley...” He felt a hand touch his back. “There's more. They made, a-a dvd. Luckily, Gao intercepted it, before it could be sent to someone who could use it to harm us. I have every copy and I have destroyed them.”

Wesley suddenly remembered what Matt Murdock had said, upon rescuing him from the warehouse, about a camera. At the time, Wesley hadn't believed it.

“They... filmed it...” Wesley blinked rapidly. His humiliation, on display, as though he was nothing more than a cheap whore, in a pornographic film. If Wilson knew about the camera, then that means that he had...

“Did you...?” He couldn't even finish the sentence.

“I had to see what they did to you.” Wilson said, quietly.

Wesley felt something break inside of him, a sudden snap, like a tightly coiled piece of rope coming undone. He heard a keening sound, which grew louder and louder, and suddenly realised that it was coming from his own lips. He knelt down on the floor, hands pressed to his stomach, feeling unwanted tears splash down his face.

“I’m sorry,” he could feel awkward pats on his back.

The keening turned to sobs.

“No, sir, I'm sorry, sir, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...” He repeated over and over.

“There is no need to apologise,” Wilson said.

Wesley deliberately forced himself to come under control. Although his inner feelings were in such turmoil, he dearly wished to scream and shout, with great gulps of air, he forced the tears to cease. Finally, he wiped the water from his face, stood up, and deliberately brushed down his suit.

“If you could erase the last two minutes from your mind, that would be preferable, sir” he said, unable to look Wilson in the eyes.

“It's alright,” Wilson said. “Sometimes it is healthy to show emotion, even the negative ones. Vanessa taught me that.”

Wesley nodded, feeling his face flush. His hands still shook.

“How about I take you back to your apartment?” Wilson said. “While this mess is cleaned up.”

Wesley felt he had no choice but to say yes.

tbc...


	4. Chapter 4

“Here.” Wilson handed Wesley the tumbler of scotch. “To better times.” He clinked their glasses together.

Wesley watched his boss, and friend, settle back into the armchair opposite and take a sip of the alcohol. After overcoming the initial, dire knowledge that Wilson had seen the most shameful event of his life, he had then recalled who had rescued him. As soon as they reached the privacy of his apartment, he had been wanting to ask the question, but felt hesitant to know the answer.

“With the footage,” he ventured. “How much did you see?”

Wilson's dark eyes cast downward. “It felt... important to see exactly what they did to you. But,I couldn't finish it. I'm sorry.”

“I'm glad you didn't finish it,” Wesley said. “It's regretful that you saw _any_ of my weakness, that night.”

For a moment, Wilson's face creased with anguish. “No, Wesley, you weren't weak that night. I couldn't finish watching it. But you, you survived through it. You managed to escape, get to the hospital. This took immense courage.”

Wesley couldn't help the ironic uptilt of lip that Wilson's words caused.

“But then, you always did have great courage. Perhaps, even more than myself.”

“No, sir-”

“I sent my mother away, yesterday, to Florence,” Wilson cut in. “It's too dangerous, at the moment, for her. You knew, didn't you, about Ben Urich finding her?”

Wesley nodded.

“She talked about another, with him, a pretty woman, but then said it was his wife. Might have been something. Maybe she's just confused. She does get very confused,” he frowned. “She always liked you. On the way to the airport, she called you a 'handsome boy,'” Wilson smiled. “Later on she asked if you had a girlfriend. I told her you didn't. She said it was a shame, handsome boy like you. I agreed. It would be nice, for you, if you had a girlfriend... or boyfriend. Although I didn't add in the second part. She can be old fashioned about these things.”

Wesley didn't respond. Such distractions were unnecessary, for him. In the past, he didn't mind the odd release of sexual tension, but felt no need to develop a relationship, beside that of him and Wilson, and his associates. Ever since that night, however, he could not bear the thought of anyone touching him, in a carnal way. This did, at least, simplify things for him. With even the mere thought of sexual intimacy enough to cause him to feel queasy and slightly shaky inside, he could now focus completely on Wilson.

“A few months back, the blind lawyer that we hired, from Murdock and Nelson, came to the art gallery. Of course, at this point, he was technically working a case against us. I knew that he came to the gallery to specifically scrutinise me, but didn't begrudge him that, in fact, it made me respect him.”

Wesley frowned, unsure where Wilson was headed, with this little anecdote, and not particularly sure if he wanted him to finish it, particularly as it concerned the one who had secretly rescued him from his attack.

“He clearly, also has strong values, a need for justice. Even though he was, at the time, lawfully on the other side of us, I respected his convictions, his righteousness. I later looked into what you had dug up on him. What I found interesting was that, like you, he clearly has no preference of gender. I thought, at the time, if you were to... ever establish a relationship with the closeness of me and Vanessa, it would be with someone of similar nature.”

Wesley could not help the titter that escaped his lips.

_Yes, sir, I guess I could 'establish a relationship' with the blind Devil of Hell's Kitchen._

Wilson looked momentarily confused, then started to laugh, himself.

“Perhaps... no,truly I am the worst person to be giving this kind of advice.”

“I appreciate your candour, sir.”

For a moment, both looked at each other, smiling. Despite everything that had happened, so far that day, Wesley felt uplifted, amused, for the first time since his attack.

“There is something I have to talk to you about,” Wilson said, taking another sip of whiskey. “I've organised to meet with Owlsley tonight, to discuss some irregularities with some funds.” He paused. “Tell me, Wesley, your opinion. Was he the one who poisoned the champagne at the benefit?”

“I have no proof. But yes, I suspect his hand in it.”

Wilson nodded. “Thank you, Wesley.”

*

Wesley was lying down on the couch, watching, on his television, Heston Blumenthal create a realistic looking, edible teddy bear, when the man suddenly arrived. It occurred to him, that whenever the Devil of Hell's Kitchen entered the room, he never actually heard him, until he was standing right in front of him. He wondered what his secret was, when it came to moving with absolute silence.

“I always expect to fight five men,coming up here,” he said, this time not waiting for Wesley to ask, before removing his mask.

“My emp- Wilson Fisk doesn't want _anyone_ knowing where I am.” Wesley explained, sitting up straight. He thought of Wilson's earlier remark about this masked man and couldn’t help the smirk that uplifted his mouth.

“So, how's the practice going? Any new cases?” He asked, sardonically.

Matt felt around the edge of the armchair opposite Wesley and sat down, pulling it forward. The little gesture of the touching the chair, to confirm where it was, reminded him that the other man truly was blind.

“I want to talk about that night.”

_Sure, why not? I always like reminiscing fun times._

“If you remember, I started to help you out of the warehouse, when you collapsed.”

“No, I forgot all about that night. Remind me again, what happened?” He had no desire to tell the other man that, after collapsing, he next recalled waking in in the hospital, with a matronly looking nurse taking his blood pressure.

Matt ignored the sarcasm. “I slung you over my shoulder, and carried you two blocks, through the industrial area, to a bus stop.”

“Lucky for you there was no one else out and about that night, wouldn't you say? Or maybe that's normal, for that area; men carrying other, unconscious men around.” He wasn't even sure why he was devolving into Leland Owlsley levels of sarcasm.

“You need the hospital, but I obviously couldn't take you. I couldn't think who to call.”

“Not even your pretty nurse friend? Oh yes, she's left the city, hasn't she?” Wesley said, trying to regain some control, over the conversation.

_Yes, Matt, don't think that I don't know everything about you._

Matt did not look the least perturbed, by Wesley's words.

“I eventually did think of someone I could call, who I could trust,” he paused. “I called Ben Urich, didn't tell him what had happened, just told him to come. And he did.”

Wesley didn't see himself as easily stumped. But, yes, he thought to himself, this odd emotion of complete bewilderment, must be that proverbial bottom of the tree.

“He was... hesitant, at first. I had to explain to him... well, firstly that I didn't do this to you. Secondly, that you had been more than just beaten. He was the one who drove you to the hospital, placed you in the hospital car park I don't know how he knew which car to put you in. I guess the flashiest one, closest to the door.”

“And what was in it for him?”

“Nothing.”

Wesley laughed.

“Ok, I'll be honest. I told him that this might be a way into Fisk, to imagine how grateful Fisk would be, when he told him that he'd rescued his second-in-command. Perhaps Fisk would even give him something in return. And do you know how Ben replied? He was furious, with me. He told me that he would drop you off at the hospital, but he wouldn’t let anyone know that it was him.”

“Why would he do that?” Wesley wasn't sure if he could entirely comprehend what Matt was telling him.

“Because he told me that he didn't want to use a gang rape as leverage. He would drop you off at the hospital because it was the right thing to do.” As he spoke, Matt's voice started to break. He quickly wiped away twin tears, that fell down his cheeks.

Wesley tried to process this new information. Ben knew what had happened to him, and had not used it to his advantage, in fact, had taken him to a place where he could get the medical help he needed. The once famed reporter, who had been actively trying to bring down his employer, who had died, because of his determination to simply not back away, from digging up the sordid details of Wilson's past, had helped him, at his lowest.

It was enough to make him feel rather light-headed.

“I went back to the warehouse,” Matt continued. “They'd all left, by then. I searched, but I couldn't find the camera. Then, this afternoon, this arrived, in the post, for our office.”

Matt reached into his pants pocket, and held up a silver disc.

Wesley momentarily closed his eyes. He realised that he didn't have the energy to feel any fresh anxiety, or horror, over this new development.

“Luckily, I intercepted it, before Foggy or Karen arrived, at the office.”

“Did you watch it?”

“Only the beginning... and the end. It cuts before I arrive in the picture.”

Matt snapped the disc in half, then leant forward and placed the two pieces of disc in Wesley's hands. How many more were out there? Who else had seen him be violated by three men,as he simply lay there, sobbing?

_Lovely, calm night._

Wesley stood up and started to walk out of the lounge room, towards the french doors, leading to the balcony.

“Wesley... James!”

Wesley stopped, mid-step but did not turn around.

“I know that's your name.”

“I prefer Wesley. Now, if you don't mind leaving-”

“So, that's it? You're giving up?”

Wesley turned to face him. “Haven't you already a plan, in motion, to bring down Wilson Fisk? I'm rather puzzled as to why you're here, and not working on that. Although maybe I should stay. It might be rather amusing to see how far you'll get, before you are totally destroyed.”

“You would never betray him, would you?”

Wesley was surprised that he'd even ask that question. “Never.”

“Wouldn't you say that jumping off that balcony would be a betrayal?”

“I say it would be a release, for him.”

Again, with the dark eyes, looking at him in a way that went beyond mere vision. For a long moment, both men stood, as though waiting for something to happen, for someone to make sense of the chaos around them. Finally, Matt spoke.

“You keep asking me what happened to me. I didn't want to tell you; not out of shame but because it doesn't inform what I'm doing now. I think, now, that I was always going to be the devil, I had no other choice.”

Now, Wesley was intrigued.

“What happened to me was simply a roadblock along the way, it wasn't the reason.”

“What did happen to you?”

“Sit down, and I'll tell you.”

Genuinely curious, Wesley did as he bid, returning to his lounge chair. Matt sat down opposite him, once more.

“I've never told anyone else this. Not Foggy, not even my priest. You should feel blessed, I guess,” he said, somewhat sarcastically.

“No, it doesn't make me feel blessed to hear it. Murdock-”

“Matt.”

“Matt, you should that I never took pleasure in the crueler aspects of my work for my employer. Neither, I should remind you, does he. Even if someone's life has to be taken, it is a regrettable means to an end.”

“I'm sure the families of all those who have died, are grateful for your thoughts,” Matt said, sardonically.

“I'm certain you would have heard of the phrase 'there are always casualties in war'. And before you answer, yes, we are in a war. You would be a fool to think otherwise. The idea that greatness, for the people, can be achieved through peaceful means, is a beautiful myth. You already believe this, otherwise you wouldn't be running around at night, in your quasi-ninja outfit. Personally, I think, of all the idiots running around in superhero costumes, Tony Stark has the best one.”

“Mine's still a work in progress,” Matt said.

Wesley realised that they were getting off track, from the reason why he decided not to go to the balcony, to begin with.

“Why do you want to tell me, of all people, about the worst thing that ever happened to you?”

“Why are you willing to listen to the story?”

Wesley found that he didn't have an adequate enough answer, to that particular question.

Matt closed his eyes, took a breath, then started. “It happened when I was interning at Landman and Zack. I date a few nice girls, there. Never lasted long. The men lasted even shorter. I take it, in your research, you would have found that out, about me?"

"Of course."

“Well, there was one man there. Junior partner. He was very good at his job, almost genius like. And he was funny. Really funny. As in, you know Groucho Marx? That kind of wit. Anyway, one day, he asked me out for a drink. I took him up on it. I was... attracted to him. I can gather bits and pieces about how a person looks. Wilson Fisk. He's very tall, and rather... stocky. I can tell from the gait of his walk. And he's bald. I can smell the sweat, on his head.”

“What can you tell me about me?” Wesley asked, intrigued.

Matt hesitated. “You're also tall, though not as tall as Fisk. Average build... as in not... like your boss but not overly thin, either. Like Fisk, you always wear suits. Expensive. Short hair. Glasses. A very distinctive watch. You're very particular about presentation. When you first came to my office, I could smell expensive soap, deodorant, aftershave, even your toothpaste and hair shampoo and conditioner, oh and shoe polish. To be honest, it was rather overwhelming. Or would have been, if I hadn't already learnt to ramp down my senses. Although, now you've cut back on such frivolities. I understand why.”

“Very impressive. Anything else, hair colour, eye colour?”

“Unfortunately, that is beyond my scope.”

Wesley allowed himself a quick grin. “Wilson has brown eyes. Mine are blue. We both also have dark brown hair, or at least Wilson used to. Do you remember what _you_ look like?”

“Somewhat...I have a general idea.”

Wesley stopped himself from describing him. They were getting off story, once more.

“Anyway, continue...”

“So, this man was also particular about presentation, like you. In fact, he had a similar gait to yours, although his was slightly heavier. Anyway, we went out for a drink and I told him that I can tell, by feeling people's faces, if they're good looking or not,” Matt's face went slightly pink.

“Not exactly as impressive as your fighting skill set but, I guess, for dating purposes, at least, still a rather fine skill to have,” Wesley said, genially and with a touch of irony.

“I was a bit drunk. So I put my hands on his face. Yes, he was handsome. Anyway, he went to the bar, and came back with this particular glass of wine. He said he knew the barman. Now, I can usually tell when someone's lying. Even you. You're an incredibly good liar. Must be essential for the job. But, even so, I know when you are. This guy could mask it. He told me the wine was special and I should try it. As soon as I tasted it, I could tell something had been added. But he kept saying he knew it had an 'interesting taste' but that it was very expensive. I didn't want to embarrass him, and say that I didn't like the taste. Clearly, in retrospect, he spiked it, and I was too idiotic to call him out on it. I started to get dizzy,could barely stand. He grabbed me and took me outside, telling me he'd get me somewhere safe. He then put me in his car. I remember just telling him to drive me home. Instead, he drove me to his house. Even, when we got inside, and he started undressing me, I still thought he had my best interests in mind, that he was just going to put me to bed. Your heartrate is spiking,” he suddenly focused directly on Wesley “Do you want me to stop?”

“Keep going,” Wesley said, ignoring the fact that Matt was right. But then, what other person, other than a sociopath, would hear the story of a date rape, without feeling somewhat uneasy?

“All of my senses were totally disjointed. I just couldn't focus, at all. He put me in his bed... and next thing I know he's taken off his belt, and tied my hands to the headboard,” he paused. “I can still smell him sometimes, still feel him, on top of me. It feels like I'm back there, in that room. Sometimes, it doesn't take much to set it off; a certain laugh of a person, a tone of voice.”

Wesley inwardly shuddered, recalling his own flashback, from earlier that morning. What was Matt telling him? That he would have to periodically relive the attack, for the rest of his life?

Focus, he told himself. Control.

“When it was over, he lay with me, talking to me. Like we had just made love,” Matt's humorless smile was grotesque in it's sourness. “Like he hadn't just brutally raped me. After a while, he raped me again. I was utterly powerless to stop him. In the morning, he finally untied me. He... assaulted me repeatedly, throughout the night. I can already tell what you're thinking. I'm the devil of Hell's Kitchen, right? Why didn't I beat him, as soon as I was free?”

“Actually, I understand why you wouldn't,” Wesley said, quietly. “After such a horrific event, I would assume the first thing you'd want to do is get home and wash.”

“I didn't even give any thought to going to the police and reporting it, or going to the hospital. There would have been plenty of physical evidence. But, as a lawyer, I know the statistics on rape cases. At the time, I convinced myself that this man would be found not guilty, on some flimsy evidence. But, the reality was, I felt too ashamed, to report it. So yes, I went home and washed. ”

“So, you _never_ confronted him, as the devil?”

“I refused to involve that part of my life with what happened. I am not the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, because of what that man did to me. Also, if I ever confronted him over what happened, then I was pretty sure that I would kill him. I wouldn't be able to stop.”

_Perhaps that wouldn't be such a bad thing._

“The men who attacked me were found, and delivered to Wilson Fisk today. I shot all three in the head. They are very, very dead.”

Matt leant forward, a look of almost vulnerable need crossing his face.

“And did it help?”

“It made no impact whatsoever in how I feel now,” Wesley admitted.

Matt nodded, looking thoughtful.

“I need to ask you about something. My partners and I have been doing a little digging into the paperwork of your operations, ourselves. The building at fifty-fifth and tenth. What is it? What's it being used for?”

Wesley, who knew every facet of Wilson's operations, was clueless about this particular building.

Owlsley, he thought.

“I would think you would have investigated it yourself.”

“I was going to. Thought I'd check in with you, first. Tell you about the disc.”

“Ah, the customary visit to the rape victim. Although you never bring flowers, or balloons for that matter.”

“I need to know if I'll be walking into a trap, if I investigate there.”

_But that's not the only reason, is it? Nor was it to tell me about the disc. Not entirely, anyway. Why are you so drawn to me? Is it some sort of misplaced Catholic guilt, perhaps?_

In that instant, Wesley's mobile rang. “If you'll excuse me, I need to take this.” He flicked the little green phone icon, on the screen and pressed it to his ear.

“Yes, sir?”

“Wesley, how are you?” Wilson asked.

“I'm... ok, sir.”

“There has been a.. complication. It turns out that you were right about Owlsley. He set up the poisoning at the benefit dinner. Before he died, he told me that he was holding Hoffman. We need to locate him. And we need to eliminate him. I already have men searching the city.”

_Ah, the beauty of synchronicity, at times._

“He's being held at fifty-fifth and tenth.”

Matt instantly stood up, put his mask back on.

“I have been sorting through some of his online paperwork trail,” Wesley lied. “That is the only place unaccounted for.”

“Thank you, Wesley. I'll be in contact.”

“I can't even say that I'm disappointed,” Matt said, as soon as Wesley placed the mobile back into his pocket. “Never-the-less, I'll get to Hoffman, before they do.”

“Now _you_ disappoint me. That was a private conversation.”

“And yet, you knew I would have been listening in.”

Wesley smiled. “I actually don't dislike you, Matt. Infact, the opposite. Oh, I don't believe for a second that you will get there in time to save Hoffman. But I feel that it's a nice gesture, to make you feel as though you're achieving something, in your little campaign.”

“What is happening between us here? This has to be the oddest acquaintance that I've ever had.”

“I have to agree,” Wesley admitted.

*

An hour later, Wesley's mobile rang.

“Sir.”

“Wesley, listen to me carefully. Hoffman is making a confession, as we speak. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen took out our men then forced him to go to the police station.”

Wesley felt his heart disappear into his stomach. So, he'd underestimated Matt Murdock after all.

He was going to the location anyway! He thought to himself, as guilt twisted his stomach.

“Sir, that's-”

“No, Wesley, please, just listen. This has a great potential to fall apart. If so, I have made... provisions for you and Vanessa. Tomorrow, I will be arrested. I want you to go to the police station and hand yourself in. Tell them that you had no knowledge of any criminal undertakings.”

“But sir-”

“And that you, like everyone else, were convinced that I was the philanthropic business man I presented myself as.”

“No, sir, I can't do that!”

“You will make a statement saying that you did suspect Leland Owlsley of being directly involved in the hiring of wanted felons but couldn't get any proof. They will find no evidence on you, Wesley I have made... assurances that, if it be the case, my closest friend will not go down with me. When you come to the police station, make sure it's when I am being brought in, also. I will tip you off before hand. I want you to come up to me,and spit in my face. It will help to turn public opinion towards you. Here is the second to Wilson Fisk, spitting on him, in disgust.”

“Sir...No, I couldn't.” Wesley felt tears form in his eyelids.

“You must! Listen, Wesley, this will work. Even if some say that you hired them, many more will say that it was Leland Owlsley, who then blackmailed, or coerced them into saying it was you. You will be presented as the patsy, Wesley.”

“No, I can't let that happen,” Wesley's voice was calm, but he felt the tears run down his cheeks. “I can't let them believe that you are a monster.”

“It's the only way it will work. It's the only way that you won't be brought down as well. Please, Wesley, do this for me.”

Wesley took a deep breath, wiped his eyes. “I will.”

“Thank you.”

Wesley hung up on the mobile, realising that his hand shook, a little. Perhaps he always knew that this would happen, some day.

If this was what Wilson wanted, then he would do everything in his power, to let it be achieved.

_The patsy._

Wesley couldn't see how it would be possible. He was far too deeply entwined in Wilson's operation. But then, he knew enough about the idiocy of people to realise how the common rabble worked. It didn't matter, all the evidence against someone; all the mattered, was how the public perceived them.

No matter the crime, people were, ultimately, tried, not in terms of the law, but in terms of public opinion. The old lynch mobs of the past were still present, just in a different way. It was a shame that Matt Murdock, as a lawyer, didn't see this.

Or, considering how he spent his nights, perhaps he did.

He started to form a plan, in his mind, as to how to work the upcoming situation. It occurred, to him, that he could use the fact of his gang rape, to his advantage, in the matter.

Tbc...


	5. Chapter 5

“We have confirmation, now that Senator Cherryh has now been charged with involvement in the racketeering ring,” the reporter's smooth voice came through the open entrance, from lounge room. Wesley smiled, and finished doing up his tie, before moving, from his bedroom, to the ensuite bathroom.

Toothpaste. Painstaking brush on every tooth. Mouthwash. Gargle. Shaving cream, smoothed over his face. A sharp razor, against his stubbled flesh.

“Senator Cherryh is confident that he will be found innocent of all charges.”

“With the FBI making arrests throughout the morning, questions are being asked, about the rumoured mastermind, philanthropist Wilson Fisk, who has yet to make an appearance, to confirm or deny the charges.”

Wesley washed his razor of some cream, then applied it to the stubble on his neck.

Another voice started talking. “Yes, and what is interesting, is the lack of appearance also from Fisk's money-man Leland Owlsley.”

He certainly won't be making an appearance, Wesley thought.

“Or the man constantly seen at his side, and regular voice for his organisation, James Wesley.”

_Took them long enough to get to me._

Wesley ran the razor under the tap,then placed on the vanity cupboard, before washing his face with water, to remove the left over shaving scream.

Aftershave. Not too strong. His mind went to Matt. No, he wouldn't want to overdo it.

His mobile, in his pocket, buzzed. He took it out, pressed in the security pin, and then went into his text messages, reading the latest one.

_Change of plan. I will be arrested out the front of my house. Come now._

Wesley deleted the text, clamping down on the sudden rise in his pulse.

*

The police blockade surrounding Wilson Fisk's apartment, forced Wesley to parallel parked the suv a few houses down, After stepping out of his car, and locking the door, he managed to walk a few metres, before the mob of reporters and cameramen descended upon them.

Disgusting, he thought, as they surrounded him, shoving their cameras in his face.

“Any statement to make, Wesley?”

Wesley pushed through them, moving swiftly towards the apartment's front steps. The timing was perfect. Wilson Fisk started to walk down the steps, in handcuffs, surrounded by FBI agents.

So, this truly is happening then, Wesley thought, with a sinking heart.

“Wait, stop!” Wilson started saying. “That's Wesley, I need to talk to Wesley!”

The FBI ignored him, continued to hustle him forward.

“Wilson Fisk!” Wesley stepped up, hawked back, and spat in his face. “I quit!”

He hoped that Wilson liked his little improv. For his part, Wilson gave an almost comical look of surprise, ( _perhaps a bit too much, there, sir_ ) before the FBI surrounded him completely, pushing Wesley back. He was no longer concerned for them. No, his focus now was the now the swarming media. He could see the ferocity in their faces, hyenas circling, waiting for the kill.

“I now willingly hand myself in to the police, to make a statement. Yes?” He turned back to two police officers, standing around, rather idly, by their flashing cars.

*

“So, let me get this straight,” the blond FBI agent, seated across the table from him leant back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head. Wesley could not help but smile at the deliberate show of dominance. “You did not know about Wilson Fisk's criminal activities, despite working for him, for ten years?”

“See, this is what I find interesting,” the bald FBI agent next to 'dominance man' placed down his styrofoam cup of coffee, to speak. “Here you are, Fisk's right hand man. You should know that we've managed to find plenty of evidence to bring down a lot of people, including your precious Wilson Fisk. But with you, James Wesley. Nothing... _yet_ , I should remind you. Now why is this?”

“There is no conspiracy, here. I am innocent.”

“You are incredibly smart. I'd say even smarter than Fisk. You'd be very good at backtracking, covering up any evidence. This is what I think. You realised Fisk was going down, so you cut and run, erasing any evidence that you were ever involved.”

“I believed him. He told me he wanted to change this city for the better. I had no idea of the extent he'd go, to do it,” Wesley wiped away a tear. “At first, I thought that Owlsley was solely to blame. Wilson was my friend. I believed him.” He forced himself to start sobbing, more tears sliding down his face.

“Look at that. Tears. You are a brilliant actor, I must say,” the blond FBI agent said. “But then, sociopaths often are.”

Wesley wiped his face. “A large part of my job was to translate for Wilson Fisk. Japanese and Chinese, mainly. It turned out, that Owlsley also spoke Chinese. I realised, when I secretly came upon him, about a month ago, talking to a Chinese woman. He was organising to assassinate someone.”

“Now, that is interesting. Because we have spoken to some people, who say that _you_ are the one who made contact with criminal elements.”

“Me make contact with criminal elements? Who, exactly, are these people meant to be? Look, it's clear what's happening here. Owlsley told them to say it was me, to cover himself. ”

“Yes, that is what _other_ people are saying. How do we know that _you_ didn't tell _them_ , to put the blame on Owlsley? Interesting, isn't it, that Owlsley is currently, conveniently missing? So much easier, to place the blame on someone who isn't there to prove otherwise. ”

“Look, what am I being charged with, exactly? I came here, of my own free will, to make a statement.”

Both agents glared at him but said nothing.

“Shall I continue?”

The blond man nodded. His blue irises showed all of his contempt.

“I kept a closer eye on Owlsley, after that. I... managed to bug his mobile phone. After a few weeks, it paid off. Turns out, that the assassination, was the poisoning of the champagne at the benefit. The intended target was Wilson Fisk's girlfriend, Vanessa.”

The two agents looked to be unimpressed, by this news.

“Vanessa did, indeed, almost die. I... confronted Owlsley, at the hospital, told him what I knew.”

“And did anyone else see this 'confrontation'?” The blond man asked.

“Unfortunately not. But... it was then that I decided to go to the police. Yes,” he said, looking at their incredulous faces. “I told him I was going to the police station, then had there, to make a statement against him. I got as far as my car. I discovered, then that they had corrupt police officers working for them. Three police officers surrounded my car. James Rawlinson, Carey Prince and Daniel Springer. They managed to incapacitate me, then drove me to another area, to a warehouse. I was then gang raped.”

Both FBI agents looked to each other, this time not bothering to hide their surprise.

“I presume the reason was to assure my loyalty to the organisation. It worked. After that, I didn't say a word, to anyone about what I knew. I did go to the hospital after and had a rape kit done. They told me that they had ample evidence of a brutal sexual assault.”

“Alright,” said the bald agent. “Let's go back to the start. Tell us about the sexual assault.”

*

Wesley laced his hands behind his head. He was seated, with his back against the bottom of the cot, looking up at the cell's television screen. So far, the media had not failed him. Footage of him spitting in Wilson Fisk's face had been constantly replayed on television, and was, according to reporters, one of the highest trending links on twitter.

“... the question of James Wesley,” the reporter was saying, as the scene then cut to Wilson, standing before a podium, with himself, clearly visible behind. “The man known to be Fisk's second. Questions are being asked as to the extent of his involvement. An unnamed source at Mercy Hospital has leaked that James Wesley was admitted to the hospital two weeks before, the victim of a brutal sexual assault.”

_I do love medical professionals who are determined to break patient confidentiality._

“The speculation is that James Wesley has named Leland Owlsley as complicit in organising for his sexual assault, after he threatened to come forward with knowledge of Wilson Fisk's criminal undertakings.”

_Looks like we have a leak at the police station, as well. Wonderful, just wonderful._

He did not actually expect the news to work so well in his favour. It was clear that there was no ethical standards in journalism, any more.

Ben Urich, he thought, feeling a strange pain squeeze his stomach.

_Sometimes sacrifices are inevitable._

His mind then went to the always sarcastic money-man, for Wilson Fisk.

_I'm so sorry, Owlsley, for tarnishing your name, in such a hideous fashion._

“We have breaking news. A fire fight is now occurring outside Wilson Fisk's FBI transport.”

Wesley felt his face start to fall.

*  
“You look despondent,” the police officer stated, opening the cell door. Wesley did not bother to reply. Instead, he forced a smile on his face, as he stood up, from where he'd been sitting, on the cot.

As he moved out of the cell, the blond FBI agent walked down the corridor, towards him

“I know you're involved. I'm going to keep digging. I'll find something.”

“It's been pleasant,” Wesley said, still smiling.

In the knowledge that reporters would be waiting out of the front, the officer walked him through the long corridors and then out the back of the jail, where a car was waiting. He shook the man's hand, then stepped into the suv.

Once safe in the confines of the vehicle, he allowed himself to lose the upbeat expression. The police officer was right. However, it was rather difficult to feel cheerful, when everything was falling apart before him. Wilson Fisk was now in prison, awaiting trial, along with many others, involved in the criminal enterprise. Leland Owlsley's body had been found the day before, adding to Fisk's charges. Wesley kept telling himself that it was a temporary solution. Fisk would be out, soon, and would survive to build his empire, once more. Wilson was ever the survivor.

Such thoughts did not help his current funk.

Not long after, the car pulled up, outside his apartment.

“Thank you,” he said, reaching through the screen, between the driver's and back seat, to pay the driver, before stepping out.

He started up the steps, when he heard a voice behind him.

“Hey, Wesley!”

Wesley turned, to an unfamiliar hooded man, holding up a gun.

_Not now, I'm truly not in the mood._

“Alright, there's no need to-”

“Shut up! You're a fucking liar!” The gun hand shook. “It's because of you that they died, not Leland Owlsley!”

“Put the gun down, and we'll discuss this. I'm very happy to hear your concerns.”

“Hear my concerns? I don't want you to hear my concerns! I just want you to die!”

Perhaps it was fate, perhaps it was simply that the man had terrible aim. The first bullet missed, by a good metre. Wesley gasped, held his hands up to cover his face, terror routing him to the spot.

Daredevil landed on the man, knocking his gun hand. The second shot went stray. His saviour then flipped in the air, kicking the man in the face. That was enough to knock the man to the ground, where he did not get up.

“I preferred the other suit, I must say,” Wesley said. His heart still felt like a galloping horse.

“You should have guessed that this would happen, once you were released from custody, without charge. You've made a lot of enemies.”

“Yes, I'll have to figure a solution, to that.”

A slight smile crossed the half-covered face.

“I hope you do. I don't plan to be following you around. I have more important things to do.”

“You underestimate me,” Wesley said.

“With everything that's happened in the past week, I very much agree.”

Then the red suited man then scrambled up the neighbouring building, and was gone within seconds.

*

Wilson and Wesley both waited until the prison officers had left the small, empty visitor's room, before showing any sign of affection towards each other.

“Wesley,” Wilson smiled. “It's so good to see you.”

“And you, sir.”

“Telling me that you quit, that was a nice touch.”

“Thank you.”

“This is only a... temporary arrangement,” Wilson held up his handcuffed hands. “In the meantime, lay low, until I say. It is too dangerous, at the moment, to recommence any actions on Hell's Kitchen. I have also heard abut certain... elements that have been threatening you, since your release. They have been taken care of. Even now, there are those in Hell's Kitchen who are loyal to me. You will be safe.”

Wesley nodded.

“As for that red suited nut, he will not be touched. I wish to personally take care of him, myself. I will rip his head from his shoulders.”

Wesley did not show his consternation. The 'red suited nut' was starting to grow on him.

*

Though he was obeying Wilson's orders, he still used what was left of his employer's contacts, to locate the address. He was now parked out front of the apartment block. After quitting Landman and Zack, two years before, the man had clearly downsized. He had cited “personal reasons”, for his departure from the prestigious firm. It didn't take much digging to discover the 'personal reasons' involved a potential upcoming sexual harassment lawsuit, that the company had quashed, upon him leaving.

The red porsche pulled up behind his own vehicle, and the man got out. Wesley was struck with how similar this one looked to himself. Although, if he were to be honest, he thought himself to be far more handsome. This man was rather chubbier than himself, and sported rather a receding hairline.

Wesley stepped out of the suv and walked in front of the man, who was turned side-on to him, pressing the inhibitor, to lock the car.

“Yes, can I- what do you want?” The man asked, recognition coming over his face, as he swivelled to face him.

“I would appreciate it if you get in the car,” Wesley said.

The man was at least smart enough not to argue. He climbed into Wesley's car, beside him.

Wesley had always been amused by Owlsley's tazor. However, after he'd acquired one of his own, and now used it on the man beside him, he decided they had their advantages, after all.

*

He parked the car by the bay, and turned off the ignition, whacking the sleepy looking man's cheek.

“Where are we?” He asked, clearly still drowsy.

“ Lower Bay,” Wesley replied.

“What do you want with me?”

Wesley took his pistol out of it's holster.

“Oh god, please...” The man begged.

“Get out of the car,” Wesley said, pointing the gun at the man's chest.

“Ok, ok...” the man scrambled out. Wesley followed, still holding the weapon level at the man's heart. He was telling the truth, to Matt, when he said that he didn't take pleasure in enacting violence.

Though he suspected that this particular case may be the exception.

“Matt Murdock.”

The man's brow creased.

“I don't understand.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He used to intern under us.”

“Yes, continue.”

“What do you want me to say? I haven't seen him in years.”

“You went out with him, one night.”

The man's face went slightly pink.

“We had a few drinks together.”

“I'm not going to do all the work here. I know you spiked his wine. Continue, from there.”

“What are you talking about? I don't I wouldn't-” he spluttered.

“I don't think you quite appreciate the situation that you're in right now. I really don't wish to shoot you in the head,” Wesley said, watching the man shudder, start to instantly sob. “So... yes, continue.”

“Yes, I-I might have put something in the wine.”

“Might?”

“I spiked the wine,” the man said, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I took him back to my place. And we... made love.”

“I would also appreciate you not insulting my intelligence,” Wesley said.

“I... raped him...” The man choked the words out.

“Thank you, for your candour,” Wesley said, then raised the weapon slightly, and pulled the trigger, blowing the back of the man's brains out of his skull.

His body, as well as Wesley's pistol, then went into the ocean.

*

Matt appeared before him, the following night, wearing the ridiculous red outfit. This time, he was earlier than usual. Wesley was in the middle of cooking dinner.

“Would you like some stir-fry?” He asked, as Matt took off the mask.

“Thank you for the roses,” Matt said, sarcasm clear in his tone. “Didn't know they came in black.”

“You're welcome.”

“They found the body today, in the lower bay area.”

“Hm...” Wesley turned to his pantry and started to take spices out. “You should know that I don't usually take on a more... personal role. But, I felt that this was important enough, to do myself. Consider it a present, from me to you, more significant than the roses.”

“I don't believe in vengeful murder,” Matt said.

Wesley placed the spices on the counter. “So you are displeased that he is dead?”

“No, I'm not. That's what troubles me.”

Wesley turned off the hotplate, then turned, focusing on him completely. Perhaps it was because of his incredible fighting abilities, but he usually did not notice that Matt was a good few inches smaller than him, and considerably less broad in the shoulders. Tonight, the young lawyer was more curled in on himself, adding a distinctive vulnerability, at odds with his usual intensity.

“You reported your attack to the police. Now the whole city knows about it. That took courage.”

“It was merely a way to engender public opinion towards me. People have instant sympathy towards one who has been the target of a horrendous crime. I knew that leaking proof of my gang rape, would blur the lines of some of my other... actions.”

“I knew it was a tactical ploy,” Matt said. “Still doesn't change the fact that it wouldn't have been easy.”

“It was necessary,” Wesley said.

“If you had gone to trial, you would have had a high probability of getting a guilty verdict. With mine,on the other hand-”

“Yes, we are both aware that the law, particularly in regards to such matters, is atrocious, at best.” Wesley turned back to the stove. “Even the fact that you were both drugged, and handcuffed-”

Matt pulled out a chair, and sat down. “I think that, perhaps, I've mislead you. I doubt you would have been so intent on getting vengeance for me, if you knew the full truth.”

Wesley turned from the stove, once more. Matt took a deep breath.

“It wasn't rape. At least, not entirely.”

“I don't understand.”

Matt said nothing, simply sat, stock-still.

“We keep saying that we have this in common. But it's not true. With what happened to you, there is no doubt that it was sexual assault-”

“I no longer believe that's _all_ we have in common-”

“He's now dead, because you believed that I was traumatised. The fact is, after the first time, he made it... pleasurable.” He looked away. “I... responded. I didn't want to...” Tears started to slide down his face.

A lot of Wesley's job, it seemed, was calming situations down. Wilson always said that he had a deft touch, in regards to solving the problems of those around him. This included the great man, himself. Often times, when Wilson was in a rage, Wesley was the one to come in, and pacify him, or at least come up with a solution.

He came before Matt now.

“The body will respond to a pleasurable touch, or stimulation. It doesn't mean that it was wanted.” He knelt before Matt, very lightly touching the back of his hand, as he next spoke. “Never blame yourself. He did it deliberately, to enforce his power over you.”

Choked sobs escaped from Matt's mouth.

“It's not your fault,” he said, now lightly touching his shoulder. Matt wiped his eyes, reached out his hands towards him. Wesley leant forward, allowing Matt to touch his face, running his fingers over is jaw, up his cheeks, down the bridge of his nose.

“Now do you have a full mental image of me?”

Matt nodded.

“Do I fit your criteria for handsome?”

Matt instantly put his hands away. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

“Yes, although I already knew it. Damn, what am I... what am I doing?” Matt stood up.

Wesley stopped him from stepping forward, with a light touch to his chest, then moved his hand up, to lightly stroke his jaw.

“I think you're handsome, too,” he said, smiling.

“What are we doing? This is wrong,” Matt said, then leant forward. His lips were slightly chapped, his mouth tasting of caffeine and bad takeaway chinese food. Wesley pulled away first. From the look on Matt's face, he was as bewildered as Wesley was.

“I'd better go...” Matt said, placing the mask back on, and swiftly exiting the room.

Tbc...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit, I don't think this is my best work, but feel compelled to finish.
> 
> Still, I truly appreciate all the kudos, comments etc and peeps reading :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for attempted rape in this chapter

From the disgusted look on Karen Roper's face, as she opened the door to the office for him, she wasn't pleased to see him. Wesley couldn't blame her for that one. He had, after all, organised twice for her to be killed. However, tricky little vixen that she was, both times she managed to evade any serious injury. In a lot of ways, he had to admire her tenacity.

Foggy Nelson, on the other hand, he didn't feel so admirable towards. He now walked up to stand beside her, coffee cup in hand. Wesley could not understand how a man as clever and powerful as Matt Murdock could have such a weak partner. At least him and Wilson shared common goals, similar intelligences. He was totally baffled as to what Matt saw in Foggy.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Karen asked, as he moved, closer towards them, allowing the door to close behind himself. Looking around the small, dingy room, Wesley thought that Matt really needed a better office.

“Looking for some legal assistance,” Wesley said.

“Alright, now you're going to tell us what you're _really_ here for. We know you were working for Wilson Fisk,” Foggy said.

“If you had been following the media, you would know that there was no evidence found, whatsoever, of me being involved in any criminal activities-.”

“I think you should leave,” Karen said, folding her arms.

In that instance, the door opened and Matt walked in. Wesley was so used to his (in his mind tacky) daredevil outfit, that it was a surprise to see him in his usual suit and tie, carrying a cane. As soon as he saw Wesley, his mouth opened in surprise but he quickly conducted himself.

“What's going on here?” Matt said, moving past Wesley, to stand beside Karen and Foggy.

“What's going in is Wilson Fisk's associate is about to leave,” Karen said. Her expression was of utter hard steel. Wesley resisted the urge to smirk.

“Don't you even want to hear what I have to say? I get the distinct impression that you aren't too fond of Mr. Fisk. I'm not too fond, either. Particularly, considering how he betrayed me-”

“I don't believe a word of it,” Karen said. “This is some kind of ploy between him and Fisk.”

“I certainly am not lying. I did not lie about Leland Owlsley setting me up to be sexually assaulted. I wish to bring the ones responsible to justice, only they appear to be missing. I want them found and brought to trial.”

He turned and looked at Matt, who he knew was intently focusing on him. Not for the first time, Wesley wondered what Matt actually did see, in his blindness.

“Do you mind if I speak to my associates in private?” Matt asked him. He nodded, and watched them walk into another room, closing the door behind themselves.

Wesley then stood still, calmly waiting, knowing what the outcome would be. Karen and Foggy would both argue that they should have nothing to do with him. Matt would then counter-argue that this would be the optimum way into Fisk, even if it was a ploy, of some kind. They would just make sure they were always one step ahead of him.

A few minutes later, all three stepped out of the room. Matt's head was cocked slightly to one side, looking as though he was deep in thought. Foggy's face was set with an irritated look. Karen openly glared at him.

“Surely, with your contacts, you could afford better lawyers,” Matt remarked.

“I admire your work ethic,” Wesley said. “I've learnt the hard way that money does not buy integrity, which you three have.”

“We will take the case,” Matt said.

Wesley smiled, noting the charged atmosphere, in the tiny room. “There is no need for the concern, people. Wilson Fisk is in prison, now, his corruption exposed. Why would I turn the worst thing that has ever happened to me into some kind of ploy? I only want justice.”

The upper lips of Matt's mouth lifted up, momentarily, into an ironic smirk.

“I'll be honest,” Foggy said, stepping forward. “I don't like you very much. I think you were involved in every one of Fisk's criminal dealings. You were just too clever to be caught. But I'll go along, if only to find out what exactly your agenda is.”

So, perhaps this one _was_ smarter than he gave him credit for.

“Honesty. I like it. But no, Mr. Nelson. No agenda.”

*  
“A diversion, sir. Everyone will be intent on me seeking justice with the underdog law firm, who successfully caused a mistrial for Global United in the past. It makes for a very juicy news story. That should tie up the media for a while. Meanwhile, I can start working again on bringing your investments up to what they were. When you come out of here, you will be the king again.”

A half-smile lifted Fisk's lips. “And I will then ruin this city.”

Wesley blinked. “Sir?”

“Corrupt, stinking mess of sewerage. I was going to be their saviour, but they chose against me. They turned on me. When I get out, I'll be their king, once more. But, this time, I'll be the one that they deserve. I used to love this town, it's true,” Wilson said, a slightly sad expression marring his face. “Now, all I see is greed and hypocrisy, people just wanting to be the next reality tv star, getting onto the next fad diet, so they can impress some other no-brained pathetic loser. They have no thought to their city, no belief in their fellow mankind. All they care about is whether they can get the latest brand of car, to impress other people they don't actually care about. No, I'll show them the kind of ruler that they truly want.”

This speech, which caused both elation and fear in Wesley, now echoed the way he truly felt about New York. If it wasn't for his employer, he wouldn't even be there. If he were to be utterly honest with himself, he probably wouldn't even be living in the United States. He had always preferred the cleanliness, as well as uniqueness of Japan. His fellow Americans, in his opinion, _thought_ that they were unique, but they were all, in reality, uniformly moulded from the same cookie-cutter.

With one exception, sitting before himself.

No, two. He'd have to include Matt Murdock, now.

“I thought about it, Wesley With Vanessa nearly dying, and then what they did to you. I've been thinking a lot. I realised that I was not as invulnerable as I'd once thought. But that's alright. I can change that. I will change that.” Wilson said the last sentence with such conviction, that Wesley felt goosebumps rise on his arms.

_I believe you, sir._

*  
He decided that, upon arriving home, he'd take a long shower. The events of the day had made him feel exhausted, and in need of the vitality that only a good scrub with plenty of warm water could bring about. As well as perhaps a glass of good red wine. The SUV pulled up to a stop, and the screen between the driver and back seat came down. Wesley frowned and fished out his wallet from his pocket. Since Wilson's arrest, much to his own personal displeasure, he'd been forced to pay for the drivers to take him from his apartment to the prison.

“So, how much do I-?”

That was when he saw the pistol, pointed at him, and sighed, repocketing the wallet.

“This time, I'm _truly_ not in the mood.”

“Do I look familiar to you?” The man asked.

“I know a lot of people.”

“Look closer.”

Resisting rolling his eyes, Wesley focused beyond the weapon. There was, indeed, something familiar about the long, thin face.

“No, sorry,” he lied. “May I ask, how do I know you?”

The man's smile didn't reach his eyes. “You don't know me. But you've been acquainted with my brother. Very well acquainted. On a biblical level, you could say. My brother was James Rawlinson.”

Wesley felt a sudden, painful charge zap through himself, his mouth dry, stomach heaving.

“So, you do remember him, I see. See, he told me all about you. And Wilson Fisk. How you were bribing most of the officers in his precinct. But then, when he truly needed your help, you turned him away. He was more than eager to get revenge on you, Wilson's little bitch. It was _my_ idea to film it.”

Wesley felt himself start to tremble, nausea continuing to rise in his stomach. He willed it to cease, only his body wasn't paying attention to his inner commands.

“I know you did something to my brother. See, there's nothing else I care about in this world. I don't have a family, or pets. I don't care for any of my work colleagues. If they were to die, I would probably go to the funeral and laugh. I don’t even care about my own life. But little Jimmy. Jimmy was the only thing in my life that made it worth living. And you killed him, didn't you?”

“Little Jimmy was a rapist,” Wesley controlled his voice, so it didn't match his shaking innards.

“I don't know if I would say that. I have the footage, you know. Looks like you were enjoying yourself, to me.”

Wesley clenched his fists, an angry shudder moved through himself. Good, he could work with that, far better than the useless havoc the rest of his body was producing.

“Where is it?”

“How about if I get in the back-seat with you? Make it a lot easier to talk. By the way, if something were to happen to me, you'll never know where the footage is, or how many copies I made and where they are.”

In the seconds it took for the man to come into the back seat, Wesley considered his options. The man was right, killing him would have no effect. He could taser him, torture him for the information.

_Alright, just wait for the opportunity._

The back door opened and the man continued to hold the pistol on him, as he climbed in beside him. In his brief glimpse of the outside surroundings, before the door closed, Wesley suddenly realised  that the man had not parked in front of his building, but in the alleyway alongside.

“If we're going to be acquainted,” Wesley said, scooting back against his side door. Now that he was closer, he could smell the man's body odour. “I should at least know your name.”

“Frank,” the man said. “Now we're acquainted.” He held out the hand that wasn't holding the pistol. Resisting the urge to grimace, Wesley shook it.

“Now, your taser," Frank said.

_Damn, plan squashed._

Wesley frowned and again considered his options. He quickly decided that the man would not hesitate to shoot him, if he failed to co-operate. He reached into his pocket for the device and then gave it to Frank, who then pocketed it.

_Stay calm. Think rationally._

“Like I was saying,” Frank said. “I rather enjoyed your little gang bang porn.”

Wesley felt anger move through him, once more.

“You must be rather sick, indeed, to be aroused by your own brother sexually assaulting another person.”

“Oh, it's very gratifying, when that person is _you_. Particularly considering what a big man Wilson Fisk thought himself to be. Well, he was proven wrong, wasn't he?”

“Well, you clearly have my attention. What do you want?”

“Did you kill my brother?”

Wesley smiled. “I shot your brother in the head. And before he died, he begged and cried and soiled himself. Yes, I remember smelling it. Soiled himself like a baby.”

Though this man, this Frank, was outwardly calm, his fury showed in his eyes.

_Aw, you feeling angry? Good._

“You're going to now suffer for every hurt you put upon my Jimmy. I'm going to torture you in ways that you'd never even imagined-”

“I have a pretty big imagination-” Wesley attempted to calm his racing heart, determined not to show this man the fear that his words were producing. Until his gang rape, fear had been an emotion that Wesley was not very familiar with. 

“How about we start with something familiar?” Frank said, reaching into his pants and pulling down his zipper, before taking out his erect penis.

Wesley felt his nausea become almost overwhelming. He swallowed convulsively.

_No, not again, not again._

“Like I said, you looked like you were an absolute pro at giving head,”

Wesley pulled open his back door and scrambled out, onto the muddy ground. Not the most logical thing to do, in the situation, he realised but, at this point, a fair amount of panic had taken over. The only thing on his mind was that he absolutely could not allow himself to be assaulted again.

Frank laughed and threw himself out of the car, slamming his body on top of Wesley's. Feeling the man's length pressed against his own, the man's breath against the back of his neck, Wesley suddenly felt himself freezing. Though his mind was screaming to be released from Frank's grotesque hold of him, he could not move, could not even work his vocal cords to shout out the indignity of what was happening.

“If not your mouth, then I’ll take your ass,” Frank said, fumbling with Wesley's belt. “I don't mind fucking you here in the street, for everyone to see what a faggot whore you are.”

There was a wrapper on the ground. Blue. He couldn’t quite make out the brand-

And then suddenly the man was torn off him. ( _Matt-_ ) He could hear the sounds of slaps,( _took him_ ) of kicks, ( _long enough-_ ) followed by a zapping sound.

“I was hoping you'd turn up, to save your boyfriend,” Frank laughed. “Two for the price of one.”

Wesley finally managed to snap from his shock, and rose his head, ( _no_ ) to see Matt convulsing on the ground, from where Frank had zapped him, with Wesley's own taser.

_We're in trouble, now._

“I saw the end of the footage. I was the one who edited out your saviour,” Frank leant in closer, to Wesley. “Pretty blind lawyer,” he whispered, then turned back and tasered Matt again. “You know, I'm going to have fun, torturing and fucking you both.”

Matt's scream was more of anger than pain. Wesley went to rise, only to be hit with the taser, himself. The pain was instant, galvanising him to the spot, as though he'd been doused in lighter fluid and set alight. He could not help the groans that escaped his lips. Still, despite the pain, he attempted to move, to crawl towards Matt.

“Here's the thing, I know the truth about you both. If anything should happen to me, I have a close cop friend on the force, who's willing to spill everything he knows. He also knows where the original footage is, and would be more than happy to share it with some rather important people. You should know a little about blackmail, Wesley. After all, you're so good at it. So, here's what's going to happen. We're going to go for a little ride, all three of us. Somewhere more secluded.”

Wesley felt the pain start to dissipate, his mind become clearer. He flopped back to the ground, deliberately jittering about, mimicking the effects of the electricity. Before him, Frank pulled the still shaking Matt onto his stomach, shoving his hands behind his back, and tying them together, using plastic cuff links. He then lifted him and threw him over his shoulder. The car was to the side of Wesley, which mean that Frank would have to walk past him to get to it. As soon as he passed, Wesley moved quickly, reaching up and snatching the taser out of the man's pocket, before shoving it against his body, and pressing it on. Frank screamed and fell sideways to the ground, where he lay, jittering. Unfortunately, Matt, had also been given a dose of the electrical current. He spilled out of the man's grip and also lay, convulsing, beside him. Wesley swiftly grabbed Matt’s stick from inside his holster, flicked it open, and slammed it against Frank's face, crushing his nose. Blood started pouring down into his mouth. He then smacked it hard against his face again, this time tearing open his cheek bone. The third smack came down onto his ribcage. He felt, and heard, a crack as the bone fractured. Wesley then stood back, surveying his good work. It didn't look as though Frank would be up again, any time soon. He then moved swiftly to Matt, grabbing a thin slice of broken metal, from the ground, to undo the plastic ties, before kneeling before him, and waiting for him to cease jittering.

“I'm sorry,” Wesley said.

Finally, the effects of the taser appeared to wear off.

“Who was that man?” Matt said, as he struggled to lift himself. Wesley placed his arms around him and hauled him to a sitting position.

“Just your friendly neighbourhood rapist's brother.”

“He knows who I am,” Matt said.

He went to rise, a little shakily to begin with, before gaining strength. “We need to find out who his cop friend is.”

Both Wesley and Matt moved to the fallen man, Wesley holding the sharp metal in his hand. They hauled Frank to his feet, and threw him up against the wall.

“Tell me about your cop friend,” Wesley said, placing the sharp implement against his throat.

Frank laughed. “Fuck you.”

“You know I can make this hurt.”

“Give it to me,” Matt said. “I'll make it hurt.”

Wesley handed him the metal and stepped back. Matt carefully started to penetrate the upper part of the man's eye socket, with the tip of the object's serrated edge. Judging by Frank's scream, it was incredibly painful, indeed.

“Tell me what I want, or I’ll do it again,” Matt said.

Wesley had to admit, he was more than impressed, as well as more than a little shocked, by Matt's torture of another human being. Moreover, the masked man appeared to be enjoying himself.

“Torture me all you want. I wont-” the man said, then started to scream again, as Matt carefully worked the metal into the eye socket, once more. “Robert Stone, Robert Stone!” Frank shouted.

“Thank you, for your co-operation,” Matt said, then stepped back, swung his leg around and kicked him, hard enough in the head, to knock him to the ground, where he now lay, not moving.

“You have a mobile, right, that can't be traced?”

Wesley hesitated, only momentarily, then plucked it out of his pocket and gave it to him. Matt pressed in the emergency number and put it to his ear.

“Ambulance,” he said. When he next spoke, it was with a convincing English accent.

“There's a man, here. I think he's been beaten up, really bad. He's not moving. Yes, twenty-fourth and fifth, in the alley here. Yes, please hurry.” He hung up and handed it back to Wesley.

“I was always good at accents,” Matt explained, to the bemused Wesley.

“So I see,” Wesley realised that this was something else that they both had in common.

“Do you know Robert Stone?”

“I know all of the ones that were on Wilson Fisk's payroll. Robert Stone is a star detective from Precinct 37, and an utterly loathsome individual. His wife finally left him two months ago, after years of horrific domestic abuse. He is currently taking her to court, for access to their children.”

“I think I'm going to enjoy hurting this man,” Matt said.

*

Wesley used his laptop to swiftly locate Robert Stone's address. Matt refused to get in the SUV with him, saying he'd get there quicker on foot. Wesley was sceptical. However, as he parked in front of the unit, he noticed that the front door had clearly been kicked in and that the entrance was wide open. Moving up the front steps, and hearing the sound of smacks, he rushed inside, past the foyer, to the adjacent lounge room, in time to see Robert be thrown across the room, slamming into a bookcase and tumbling books all over the floor. Matt then lifted him, and threw him back into the couch, where he then leapt on top of him.

“What do you know?” Matt ordered the struggling, cursing man.

Wesley decided to leave them to it. He moved out of the rather sparsely furnished room and down the adjacent hall. One room, branching off to the left, was decorated all in pink, with teddies on the bed; clearly a child's room. The room, at the very end, was the study. He went straight over to the desk, seated against the window, and sat down in the computer chair, switching on the computer. As it loaded, he tried to open the top drawer. It was locked. He then searched around for the key, to no avail.

When he came back into the hall, to grab Robert's keys from the hook in the foyer, he noticed that Matt still sat on the man, pinning him to the couch.

“Please, I don't know what you’re talking about!” Robert was actually sobbing, his face bright red.

Wesley returned to the study, and started flipping through the keys. He found one that looked small enough to open the drawer, placed it in the hole and was rewarded when it turned. He then started sorting through the papers inside. Underneath, were about a dozen blank discs. Wesley scooped up all of them, before turning his attention back to the computer and clicking into the various files. He couldn't see any evidence of what he suspected, that this man had loaded the footage onto the hard drive. Although, the man was clearly into bondage porn.

Wesley took a deep breath, and loaded one of the discs into the cd drive, feeling his heart hammer, as it started to load. After a few seconds, the VLC programme appeared on screen. Wesley closed his eyes.

Just do it, he told himself.

He clicked play on the programme.

The footage was of him in the warehouse, on his knees, servicing one of his rapists.

“You looked like you were an absolute pro at giving head,” Frank had said.

Wesley heard a disgusted cry and realised it was from his own lips. He quickly ejected the disc, and threw it across the floor. Then, with a shaking hand, he reached into his pocket, and pulled out a different disc, that he'd taken from his own apartment.

_Finish. The. Job._

He placed the disc into the computer, waited for it to load and executed it. As the virus started to infect the hard drive, he stood up, scooped up all of the discs, bent over and picked up the one on the floor and placed them in the small satchel that he’d brought along expressly for them. He then returned to the lounge room.

Matt was now standing, the other man a bloodied mess on the floor.

“He didn't watch the footage. He was just keeping it,” Matt explained. “I managed to convince him that Matt Murdock isn't Daredevil.”

“I found these discs,” Wesley held up one of the discs. “In a locked drawer. I'm hoping it's all of them. I also wiped his computer, just to be safe. Is he dead?”

“He'll live,” Matt said. “How are you?” He looked genuinely concerned, as he stepped closer to Wesley.

“I've just seen footage of my own rape, and earlier tonight thwarted another rape attempt. Other than that, I'm spiffy. How about you?”

“I'm sorry,” Matt said.

“Why are you apologising? You tried to stop it. There's also the fact that he was planning to assault you, as well.”

Matt didn't reply. For a moment, neither moved.

“Take off the mask,” Wesley ordered. “I want to see your face.”

Matt did as he bid.

“You keep saving me,” Wesley now stepped closer. They now stood barely inches from each other. “It's starting to be a dint in my masculinity,” he joked.

“You saved us both, tonight,” Matt said. “He was anticipating me coming. It was a trap. It's happened before.”

“With the Russians,” Wesley said, reaching up to lightly touch Matt on the chest.

“I was actually thinking about being tasered.”

“Yes, well that was rather unpleasant.”

Wesley wasn't even sure why he was touching Matt in such a way, why he was now touching his chin, why he was leaning in, to taste his lips.

More puzzling was why Matt was responding, their tongues tangling together, battling for dominance. Wesley pushed Matt back and slammed him against the bookcase, causing more books to tumble down.

Perhaps it was his way of reaffirming his masculinity, to be with another man, in a way that wasn't hurtful, or shameful. Perhaps it was his way of showing his gratitude for Matt's help. Perhaps the events of the night were simply too much for his mind to cope with, and this was an easy distraction.

Perhaps he simply shouldn't over think it ,and enjoy.

Yes, he told himself, as he grabbed Matt's arms, and pinned them over his head and kissing down Matt's neck, as the other man moaned.

Matt thrust forward, and Wesley felt his erection, rubbing against his own-

_(The feel of Frank on top of him, hardness against his backside. Only the cloth of his pants, separating the man from forcing entry into his body._

_As the others had.)_

_No._

Wesley instantly let go of Matt, stumbling back, feeling the blood drain from his face, hearing himself pant. Matt also looked out of breath, his face delightfully pink.

“Are we... messed up? We are, aren't we?” Matt asked. “What's wrong with us?”

“I think perhaps... a lot of things.”

“This is wrong. We shouldn't be...”

“I guess not.” Wesley said, then leant forward, and cupped Matt's face in his hands. This time, the kiss was more tender, Matt's tongue gently lapping with his own. Wesley pulled back, looked into the sightless brown irises.

“I'm going to see you tomorrow, aren't I, at the office? Where we're going to pretend that we hardly know each other.”

“Yes, I believe so,” Wesley let go of his face and moved back, only to suddenly feel Matt grab his hand, turning it over, and placing something in his palm.

“I actually came to visit tonight, to find out what you knew about this man.”

Wesley opened his hand, to find a playing card inside. He knew exactly who Matt was referring to.

“Maybe we can talk tomorrow night, instead. Tonight's been a bit... chaotic.”

“Maybe I'll pour some wine next time.”

For a moment, Matt's face broke out into a genuine, mirthful smile. Wesley felt his stomach do a little loop-de-loop.

Pretty blind Matt Murdock, Wesley thought, watching Matt exit the room, with his usual grace and stamina.

Tbc...


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all reading, reviewing and kudo'ing.
> 
> I admit my knowledge of the law is rusty, so apologies for any glaring inconsistencies in regards to lawyer procedure.

When a smiling Wesley walked into the office of Nelson & Murdock, he was greeted with a genuine return smile from Matt, a somewhat awkward baring of teeth from Foggy and a barely-there grin and nod from Karen.

“I want to offer my gratitude, again, for taking on my case,” he said, shaking all three hands, in turn, noting that Foggy's grip was stronger than he'd initially envisioned.

Foggy then directed him to what Wesley regarded to be a rather antiquated conference table. All three deliberately positioned themselves opposite him, with Foggy in the middle. Wesley was a little puzzled as to why Karen was included, in this discussion. He was more than aware of her role in the firm, particularly her distinct lack of any legal training. As far as he was concerned, less than a year of working in a legal office did not make one viable for sitting in on legal matters. However, he declined to say anything about the situation, in the interest of keeping everyone comfortable.

“You will be happy to know that we've already started working on your case,” Foggy said.

Karen produced two folders and opened them up, handing the contents to Foggy.

“Here is a copy of your police statement,” he said, placing said papers on the table in front of Wesley. “As well as a copy of the results of your rape kit.”

Wesley could not sufficiently repress the shudder that worked through his body, at the second set of papers now before him. He was grateful that Wilson had been the one to order the rape kit, while he was still unconscious. In that moment, he found that he could not even glance down at the pages, to see the medically substantiated proof of the atrocities that his rapists had subjected him to.

_Did all three of them read this?_

Thankful that his hand was not trembling, he reached out and pushed the papers back towards Foggy.

“We spoke to the police officers who took the statement-”

“They are unwilling to start their own police investigation, to find the men who you say attacked you,” Matt finished. “Although I suspect you know this.”

Wesley nodded. “They are not particularly fond of me, it would seem.”

Foggy's breath whistled through his teeth. “The rape kit garnered plenty of DNA evidence. We're going to Judge Farris today, to request a search-warrant for the places of residence of the men that you have accused. We'll force the police to do some work for us. Find some DNA and get it tested, see if it matches. However, before we do this, there's a few things we need to ask you.”

Wesley nodded. He already had a fair idea what the questions were going to be.

Matt then spoke. “We need you to tell us, in you own words, what happened. We have your police statement here but we need to hear it, ourselves.”

Wesley nodded. He suspected as much but it didn't make the thought of telling any less daunting.

The beginning was fine to say; a carefully spun lie, about Leland Owlsley being a mastermind possibly more clever than himself, with most of the police corrupted to his side. Wesley then spoke of confronting him, after the poisoning at the benefit. Owlsley, of course, denied all charges. Wesley then told Owlsley that he was going to the police, to report on his treason. As he casually spun such lies, he glanced to Matt, who stared back at him, blank faced.

_What's going on behind those pretty blank eyes?_

Wesley talked of going back to Vanessa's room, at the behest of Wilson Fisk, to organise some money transfers for him,before going to his car, where he was apprehended by the three police officers and strangled to unconsciousness.

For a moment, he wasn't sure if he could continue.

“You were certain, on your police statement as to who these men were,” Matt stated. “You've met them before?”

“They wore balaclavas. But I knew they were police officers. The main one in particular, he... I knew him. It wasn't until after that I remembered that I had met him. He came up to me a month or so before, asking to see Wilson Fisk. Said his name was James Rawlinson. I told him it was not possible to meet my employer. He seemed rather agitated. Called me a few names and then left. I didn't think any more about it, at the time.”

“Where did this occur?” Foggy asked.

“I was on an errand for Wilson Fisk, intercepting a key property developer on the pretext of finalising a deal. The man found me, as I was leaving the building, on the corner of fifth and thirtieth. Just came straight up to me. We did a few of our business deals there. You're more than welcome to look it up.”

This was the place that Rawlinson had, indeed, confronted Wesley. However, in the retelling of the memory, Wesley decided to leave out the part where Rawlinson had also demanded that Wesley, himself, use his weight to keep him on the police force.

Some omissions of the truth were necessary, in formulating the exact story one wanted to mould, for their listeners.

“You say he 'called you a few names'. What 'names' are we talking about here?” Foggy said.

Wesley smiled. “Wilson's bitch. Nancy boy, to name a few.”

“Did he make any direct threats against you?” Matt asked.

“No, he didn't threaten me. But he was definitely one of my attackers. Not only did I recognise his emaciated frame but also his... smell....”

And, with that, Wesley was back in the warehouse; the man on top of him, the disturbing slapping sounds of flesh against flesh, the overwhelming stench of body odour and stale sweat and shit. Wesley, who had always prided himself on being pristine, would never get the stench of this man off himself. He recalled Matt complaining about the first time that they met; Wesley's almost anal cleanliness, the almost overwhelming smells of deodorant, soap, aftershave and toothpaste.

No longer. Now he would only ever smell like his rapist. Rapists.

“Excuse me,” he said, standing up, with as much grace as he could muster, and departing the room. He reached the outside hall, and took a few deep breaths, cursing the sudden trembling of his fingers, the nausea twisting his stomach. The door to the office quietly opened and closed. Wesley turned, expecting to see Matt but was stunned to see Foggy standing before him, a cup in hand.

“Do you need anything? I brought out some water,” he held a puppy-dog expression that probably worked well with women. “Look, we don't want to push you. You're in control here, alright? Tell me what you want to do.”

“I want to finish the statement.”

“Ok,” Foggy said. “Take your time.”

“I'm alright.”

Foggy frowned at him but nodded at the same time. Both stepped back into the room together. As he sat down, he noted that Karen was regarding him with a deeply compassionate look. Matt had moved slightly back from the table, frowning to himself.

“I apologise for my overreaction there.”

“It wasn't an overreaction,” Karen said, with some warmth. “We understand that it takes a lot of bravery, to talk about such terrible events.”

“When you're ready,” Foggy said.

“I can probably find the exact date he talked with me. If I look in my appointment diary...” He frowned and picked up his briefcase, opening it and bringing out the diary, frowning as he flicked through it. “March 6th, I'm quite certain. I had an appointment with the property developers 'Mcnight and Sons' at 10am  in the building at the corner of fifth and thirtieth. I was intercepted out the front.”

Karen nodded, writing the information down.

“After I remembered about him, James Rawlinson, then I did some research of my own. I looked into officers who had known drug problems. The three who attacked me....when I saw their photos, even though they wore masks... I knew it was them. Two of them were still on the force, at that point. I did some canvassing of the police station and looked at them directly. Yes, it was definitely them. After... what happened to me, Wilson Fisk told me that he tried to find them but they had gone AWOL.”

He'd also told the officers in his statement about his research into his rapists, to explain how he knew who they were, and felt no compulsion to break from that lie now. It was, to him, a lot simpler than having to explain that he only recognised them _after_ they had been delivered to him in a box, from China (where he had long suspected that Madam Gao didn't even reside from, anyway... not that he was going to take his mind into _that_ metaphysical direction...)

“Tell us about that night,” Foggy said, actually sounding compassionate. “Tell us what happened.”

_Why not? Just as fun to talk about as the last time I was in Japan and hit that insane karaoke bar._

“I remember coming to. I was in a warehouse of some kind. I didn't recognise my surroundings, at all. I was on my knees, with my hands cuffed behind my back. Carey Springer stood behind me and held my head up by my hair. Daniel Prince stood a little further back, James Rawlinson stood directly in front of me. Skeletal frame.. with that smell.”

As he talked, he felt an odd, cold calm go over himself.

“Rawlinson. He... unzipped his pants, told me he would kill me if I didn't do what he wanted. He then forced me to fellate him and ejaculated on my face-”

Karen let out a sharp exhale of breath.

“Prince then came before me and forced me to fellate him and ejaculated in my mouth,” he started to speak faster, just wanted it to be done with. “Springer then said 'I want his ass' so they forced me to the ground and tore off my clothes. The other two held me down and he forcibly penetrated me. They then switched, so he could hold me down and Rawlinson then penetrated me. Both ejaculated inside of me. Finally, Springer then also anally penetrated me, while the other two held me down. While they were assaulting me, they were using derogatory language, calling me 'Wilson's bitch' and 'faggot' and insinuating that I was somehow enjoying what they were doing to me. During the assault, both Rawlinson and Springer also bit me on the shoulder and back, hard enough to draw blood.”

“Wesley...” Foggy sounded horrified. “I can't even imagine what you are going through right now, but what you are saying is word for word what you said in the police report-”

“Foggy-” Matt began.

“Yes, the cold facts are horrific enough and you'd hope would be enough to convict these sick fucking individuals,” Foggy managed to bring some control back into his voice. “But, to make a case like this, it's more important for us to know how you were feeling during the attacks. How they affected your life afterwards. We will want the jury to understand-”

“Foggy! I need to talk to you, right now!” Matt said, moving his chair back and standing.

Without another word, Foggy also stood. Feeling a little exasperated, Wesley watched them go into another, smaller office.

“I'm so sorry,” Karen said, sounding as though she honestly meant it. “There are some sick people I this world. I'm speaking completely off the record. Don't get me wrong, I still think that you were deep in with Fisk. But _no one_ deserves what happened to you. If these assholes do turn up, I personally would allow you a free pass to kick the shit out of them.”

Wesley smiled. He decided that, despite her being an annoyance to him, in the past, he liked her.

“I'm not particularly physical,” he admitted. “Having said that, I do appreciate the thought.”

In that moment, Foggy and Matt came out of the other room, Foggy looking chastised, Matt still with a radiating anger about his presence.

“Foggy, Karen, do you mind if I speak with Mr. Wesley alone for a few minutes? Maybe go downstairs and grab some _good_ coffee for a change...” He fumbled in his pockets for his wallet and handed it over. “Do you want anything?” He turned to Wesley.

Wesley shook his head. Both stood silent, still, waiting until the other two left, closing the door behind themselves.

“I told Foggy that he was being... insensitive...”

“No, just truthful. He's right. If this were to go to trial, I would have to come across as less robotic and more likeable... which wouldn't be too hard a feat,” he grinned, failing to elicit a response from Matt, who remained stony faced.

“I also told him that my blindness may cause you to pity me enough to talk less... robotically, when alone in my company.”

“So you manipulated your best friend, on the pretext of manipulating me. Wonderful.”

At that sentence, Matt flinched.

“I'm going to be honest. I don't know if I can take this case. With everything we know about each other...It was extremely difficult to hear you talk about your attack.”

“Yes, I could tell from your absolutely stony expression,” Wesley said, sardonically.

“I couldn't let on how I truly felt now, could I?”

“Do you know what, Matt? I used to wonder if I was a sociopath. You see, I looked it up, one day and I felt that I fitted some of the parameters. But now, hearing you speak, I actually wonder if _you’re_ one. I think you're very good at faking emotion and manipulating people. Perhaps even better than me.”

“How am I manipulating you?” Matt now sounded exasperated. “Trying to repress emotion is not the same as faking it. I couldn't let the others even get a hint that we have a.... shared history, of sorts.”

Wesley finally understood. “You haven't told Foggy yet, have you, about your own rape?”

“I wasn't talking about that. I was talking about... whatever this is...” He gestured between them. “I was there, remember? I remember how much they hurt you. And to hear you talk about it...”

Wesley never had the courage to ask before this time. “What did you... perceive?”

“Enough to make me very happy that I hurt them the way I did,” Matt closed the distance between them. “I don't know why you're doing this. As in, why really?” He reached up and gently took Wesley's hand. “We both know they're dead,” he said, quietly.

“It's a good tactic-”

“For Wilson Fisk. But I fail to see how good it is for you. Drudging up all of these terrible memories. And for what purpose?”

“Don't psychologists say it's meant to help in the 'healing process'?” He said, wryly, as he reached forward and took the glasses off Matt's face, looking into the sightless brown eyes. “It's supremely ironic that you will never know what pretty eyes you have.” He reached up his hand trailed it along Matt's forehead, curving it around to his cheek. Matt reached up and placed a gentle finger underneath Wesley's own eye socket.

“Blue,” he smiled, then abruptly moved his hand away.

“They're returning. They'll be here within thirty seconds.”

Wesley handed him back his glasses and he put them back on.

“I don't think I want to continue today. Well, with what we just did, yes. But I'm referring to my statement.”

Matt nodded. “I understand.”

*  
“Sounds as though everything is working out well. I would expect nothing less, with you,” Wilson said.

Wesley nodded, inwardly preparing himself, calming his sudden galloping heart rate, for his next words.

“There's something I need to tell you. I failed to tell you before because I... couldn't admit to myself what happened.”

Wilson said nothing, simply waited for him to continue.

“I told you that after my attack, I don't remember how I got to the hospital. That’s not true. I was... rescued-”

“I already know, Wesley.”

Wesley was not easily dumbfounded. “You do?”

“I looked at the CCTV footage of the car park. I watched Ben Urich drop you off. I didn't tell you because I thought.... considering later developments, it was not... necessary. I must tell you that I watched the footage _after_ his demise. If I'd seen if before, then perhaps it may have swayed my anger towards him.”

“That's not all.”

“Oh?”

“I can only presume my true rescuer called Ben Urich to drop me off at the hospital.”

_Presume? You know he did this. Lies upon lies, Wesley. Now towards your own best friend._

“Tell me what happened.” Wilson held a very opaque expression.

“They had already raped me, multiple times, when he came in. One was still on top of me. It all happened so fast. I could hear the sounds of a fight. Then my rapist was pulled off me and likewise knocked out. I find it hard to believe myself, sir. It was Daredevil.”

Wilson Fisk's entire face seemed to widen, in an expression of pure astonishment.

“He told me that he was sorry he hadn't come sooner. He'd heard what was happening and felt compelled to act. We started to walk out of the warehouse. And then I woke up in the hospital. I must have collapsed, unconscious.”

“Daredevil rescued you...” Wilson seemed to be speaking more to himself. “What was his motivation?”

“I don't think he likes rapists, sir.”

“There are, unfortunately, many of those crimes throughout the city. And yet, he chose to rescue _you_.”

“Perhaps he wanted to prove something to himself. That he _could_ rescue one of the men he holds responsible, for what he sees as the degradation of the city.”

“Yes, perhaps you're right, Wesley,” Wilson paused, a pained expression coming over his face. “Although it angers me that _he_ was the one to stop it, and not _me_.”

“You had other concerns, sir.”

“It doesn't matter!” Wilson shouted, slamming his hands, where they were handcuffed, onto the visiting room table. “My friend suffers from a horrific crime and I, with all of my power, was helpless to stop it from happening. It took a nutcase in a suit to rescue you!”

Wesley said nothing. He had no answers.

*

Wesley made one more stop, before returning to his apartment, that day.

The man sat to the back of the cafeteria, cap low down his forehead, obscuring half his face. He wore a simple outfit; jeans and a plain white t-shirt. Even so, Wesley silently lamented why it seemed necessary, for men to cover their faces, when they saw him.

“How are things, Wes?” The man smiled, clearly enjoying Wesley's bristle.

Wesley ignored the overly familiar deliberate use of his name, as he sat down, opposite him.

“You may have heard some interesting news today,” the man said. “This morning, a police officer was exiting his house, when he was callously gunned down.” He lowered his voice to barely above a whisper. “The investigators will be impressed, when they realise the distance, and preciseness of the shot.”

Wesley deliberately kept his face stoic, resisting the slime that seemed to be invading his body. There was something about this man that always made him feel as though he needed a cold shower, after meeting him.

“What abut the other one?”

“Unfortunately, he's skipped town. Must have realised you'd finish the job that was started. Magnificent job, by the way. I didn't take you for the type to beat people, with your own hands, that is. But don't worry, as soon as he returns, I’ll fulfil the job that you requested. It would be my honour.”

Wesley took his laptop on the table and opened it.

“There is the question of finances. I will still pay you for the first job. If you give me your bank details, I can transfer the money over there now.” In the past, Leland Owlsley took care of this side of any operation. However, Wesley felt that he was very good at adapting to changes.

“Certainly.” The man handed over a piece of paper, with the numbers scrawled over it.

He could feel the man's eyes on him, as he fired up the laptop, then went into the banking website. The money was from a subsidiary company, one of many, which was purposely used for jobs as these.

“Just answer me one thing. Were those the two men who attacked you? Because if so, I'd be happy to take ten percent off.”

How generous, Wesley thought.

“No, but they were connected to it.”

The man continued to watch him.

“Hell, just take the ten percent off anyway! I'm happy with a job well done.”

Wesley finished transferring the money, then clicked out of the websites.

“Done.”

“Good.” Both men stood. The other man held out his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

In Wesley's other hand, he placed a playing card.

Wesley watched him walk out of the cafe, and then packed up his own laptop, went to the front counter and ordered a long black, before returning to the seat.

He wasn't quite ready to leave just yet.

Tbc...


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN- Sorry about the delay. Suffered a bit of writer's block. Back on track now :)

Wesley was seated in his plush loungechair, enjoying both a rather nice vintage reisling and Bach, when the red suited Matt entered the room, mask in hand. He was late, this time, arriving well after midnight. Noting an abrasion on his left cheek, Wesley wondered what specifics had caused such a marring to the beautiful face.

“Heard some interesting news, today,” Matt began, eyes flashing. “A police detective was shot, execution style, on the way to work.” He paused. “It was that assassin, wasn't it? You paid him.”

_I thought you knew me, by now. How disappointing._

Wesley felt that the need for pretence was long gone.

“He goes by the name of Bullseye but his real name is Leonard. But, even then, we think it's an alias. He's known to be an excellent shot. I would assume you already guessed the time his services were invaluable for Wilson Fisk and myself.”

Matt's face flushed and he scowled with clear anger.

“Who are you to be judge, jury and executioner?”

Wesley could not help but smile at Matt's cliqued response.

“I was protecting us both. As you protected me. This is how _I_ do it. This man was not a nice man. You know this. He would have had not hesitation whatsoever, in harming us both, to benefit him, if it came down to it.”

“You mean, much like yourself. You're such a hypocrite!”

“No, I would not harm you. At least, not now. You're part of my 'inner circle' now.”

From the stunned expression on his face, that seemed to give Matt pause.

“You mustn’t have many friends,” Matt murmured.

Wesley's smile grew wider.

“I don't believe in murder.”

“You wanted to kill Wilson Fisk.”

Matt collapsed into the armchair opposite.

“I won't deny that.”

“You should know that I also have a hit out on the man that attacked us both, a few days ago. It seems he's left Hells Kitchen. But I'll find him.” He felt sudden indignation at the scowl that had reappeared on Matt's face. “He threatened us both with sexual assault!”

“I work for the law-”

“Except for the times when you don't.”

Matt shook his head, then rubbed his eyes.

“Where were you tonight? Out saving lives? Cleaning up the 'scum' off the streets? Did you know that I was rather curious about you, from the beginning? Beyond my mere investigations for Wilson Fisk, that is.”

“There will always be more. No matter how many I try and save, there are always more. You were right.”

Both men were silent a moment. Wesley picked up the bottle of wine and poured it into the second wine glass, that he'd specifically placed on the glass coffee table before him, in preparation for Matt's arrival.

"Have some wine."

“No, I can't-”

“This is a thousand dollar bottle. I insist,” he handed Matt the glass. Matt frowned, then took a sip.

“Very nice,” he admitted. “So, what exactly is your goal with hiring us? I understand the 'distraction' element, when it comes to your dealings with Wilson Fisk, but why try set up a court case that both of us know will never happen?”

Wesley considered his answer. “I was intrigued to see you operate, from a personal standpoint, that is. Also, I thought that, perhaps, you truly could, in you research, come up with a substantive reason for why my attackers did what they did. Perhaps childhood abuse or a psychopathic personality... I can't work objectively, in that sense.”

Matt shifted his weight, looking rather uncomfortable. “Say we do find out that one of them was abused as a child, do you think that would be reason enough, for them to hurt you the way they did? Maybe the reason was simply as you stated. Revenge, for being kicked off the police force.”

“I do understand, from a logical point of view, that my rape, was rather an effective tool, for demasculinizing me, as well as Wilson Fisk-”

“I don't have any answers, Wesley. I'm no counsellor,” Matt looked despondently down towards his glass, as though he truly could see it.

Wesley laughed. “At the hospital, they kept trying to talk to me, to get me to see someone, a professional. I told them there was no need.”

Matt said nothing, simply took another sip of his wine.

“Tell me something about Matt,” Wesley said.

“Like what?”

“Something you don’t think I'd know.”

A slightly rueful smile touched the lips. “I thought you knew everything about me.”

Wesley said nothing, simply smiled, waited.

“A few weeks after my sexual assault, I went for a walk, along the pier. It was a rather warm night. I remember just feeling so... lost. I wasn't sleeping, could barely eat. Was suffering flashbacks, anxiety attacks. You know what I mean.”

Wesley nodded. Yes, he certainly did understand.

“Foggy was worried about me. But I couldn't talk to him. Couldn't talk to anyone. I remember just sitting on the edge, feeling the light sea breeze, hearing the water lapping. And, for a moment, I thought that perhaps I could just jump in. Just swim and swim until my arms and legs grew too tired to swim any more. I don't think I was being entirely serious. But then, I can't be completely sure. Anyway, I suddenly heard the patter of feet. It was a dog. Labrador, I'm rather certain. It ran up towards me on the board walk and pretty much launched itself at me, licking my hands and face. I remember just patting this dog and feeling such a sense of awe. There weren't any other people about for miles. And yet, here was this dog, licking me and allowing me to pat it. Then, after a few minutes, it left. Just scampered away. I believe now that the dog was sent to help me. As proof of the divine.”

All warmth the story generated within Wesley deflated, upon the mention of divine intervention.

“You're against religion? Your heartbeat has slightly increased. I'm guessing more from subdued rage, than any excitement.”

“There is a lot of damage, that has been done to this world, through religion.”

“It's not the religion,” Matt said. “It's the followers, misinterpreting.”

“I'm not getting into a religious debate. Particularly with someone who was an altar boy.”

Matt grinned, shuffled forward in his chair.

“Your turn. Tell me something that no one else knows about James Wesley.”

Wesley moved forward too, until their knees almost touched. Matt would certainly be able to interpet the reason why his heartrate had considerably increased.

“Working for Wilson Fisk took up so much of my time that there was barely any time for anything else. I remember, after my own assault, lying in the hospital bed and being convinced that Wilson would fire me. The thought was devastating. But, the opposite happened. Wilson was enraged by what happened. He seemed to take it very personally.”

“I don't understand why you thought he would fire you.”

Wesley looked down at the hand, clasped in the lap before him, the delicate long fingers, the bruised knuckles.

“I... allowed myself to be overcome in such a fashion. That shouldn’t happen. Not to Wilson Fisk's second. I was certain that it would lower Wilson Fisk's prestige, with our colleagues. But then, with everything else going on... mainly thanks to you... it ultimately didn't matter, anyway.”

He risked reaching out and grabbing the hand that wasn't nursing the glass of wine, gently holding it in his own. 

“I don't want to....” Matt frowned. “I don't want to take advantage of you.”

Wesley laughed. “Believe me, that isn't going to happen.” He started to rub his thumb along Matt's own thumb then lifted his hand.

Matt leant further forward. Their lips touched.

Wesley realised there was too much space between himself and Matt. Without breaking the kiss, he manoeuvred Matt over to his couch, so that the other man was now slightly on top of him. Wesley started to tear at Matt's outfit, feeling some frustration that the material wasn't breaking.

“Where did you go tonight?” He said, feeling Matt's tongue do wonders to his ear.

“Well, there has been a vacuum, left by Wilson Fisk's departure. People vying for the top spot.”

“You decided to even the load, a little?”

“Something like that.” Matt grinned, capturing Wesley's mouth again, lightly gripping his jaw, while the other hand tugged at his shirt, pulling it out of his pants, before lightly stroking his stomach-

_Hot breath, panting breath across his face. Slicing pain further below. He can feel his attacker's hand on his hip. The other reaches under him, lightly stroking his bare stomach, an imitation of tenderness._

Wesley cried out in frustration, pushing Matt back. Although Wesley knew that Matt could kick his ass completely, if he so wished, he allowed Wesley to push him down to the floor, where he gracefully picked himself up.

“Flashback, Not your fault,” he said, seeing the consternation on Matt's face. “I wanted to. Believe me. Sit down.”

He patted the seat beside him. Matt did as he bid.

“Hold my hand,” It was more of a plea, than an order. Matt awkwardly reached for him. His hand felt surprisingly warm.

For the next ten minutes, while he worked through the feelings of anxiety and anguish, Matt simply sat silently, holding his hand. Finally, Wesley felt able to speak.

“Thank you, for doing that,” he let go of Matt's hand.

“I have something to tell you,” Matt said. “Today, I saw my priest. I told him about what happened to me. About the rape.”

“What did he say?”

“He was... disappointed that I hadn't come to him sooner. He offered to give me counsel. I told him I'd think about out. He... asked if I'd met someone. A man, who I wanted to progress things with. I didn't even know that he was aware of my bisexuality, before that point.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him that I had. But I didn't say who you were. I said it was... complicated.”

Wesley laughed. “I agree.”

He leant forward and kissed Matt gently on the lips.

“This is absolutely crazy... But not... entirely surprising, given how messed up both of us are.”  
Wesley grabbed Matt's hand once more and leant back on the couch.

“I only became _messed up_ after I was attacked.”

“Not true. Everything you did, while working for Wilson Fisk. Everything you're still doing. Admit it, you're pretty messed up. So am I. At least I admit it. The funny thing is, both of us are utterly convinced that the city _needs_ our brand of messed up.”

“Mmm...” Wesley took another sip of wine. Feeling pleasantly buzzed, he closed his eyes, relishing in the warmth of the hand in his. He felt no need for anything more. Sometime in the future, he would be more than happy to venture more. However, for now, he was content with the little progress that they'd made.

“Falling asleep? I can sense your metabolism start to slow down. Am I boring you?” He could hear humour in Matt's voice.

“Just being present, in the moment."

“I'd better go,” Matt leant forward and kissed him on the lips. “I'll see you tomorrow, when we'll pretend we don't know each other.”

“Tomorrow,” Wesley smiled.  
*

Wilson was facing the wall, when the officer walked into the cell, the door slamming behind him. He turned, to a somewhat familiar looking face; dark-haired, brown eyed. But then, all the officers seemed to blend together, in this place.

“You know, it's interesting...” the officer walked around Wilson's cell, picking up items and placing them down, with greedy appropriation.

“Do I know you?” Wilson asked.

“How stupid people are. I shouldn't have been surprised that the public would buy that poor, defenceless Wesley was a patsy to you.”

Wilson felt his innards squeeze, as though caught in a vice.

“Who are you?”

“What I find most interesting is the fact that Wesley only named two out of his three rapist, in his statement to the police. But then, we were wearing masks-”

For a moment, Wilson could only stand, watching, taking it all in. This had to be some kind of sick joke, right?

“He seemed so intent on us all being police officers. Rawlinson, he wanted revenge. It was my idea that we fuck him. Got _that_ idea from working in here.”

Wilson roared, and started to charge him. At the last moment, he saw the shiv, and tried to side step. Too late, he felt the weapon ram into his stomach, again and again. Wilson screamed in horror, placing his hands up, to cease the attack. The knife went through his palm, sliced through his finger. It went up, twice into his chest, before he collapsed. There was no pain, not yet. The adrenaline was still running through his system. He placed his hands over the wounds, in an attempt to cease the bleeding. Only, the blood was running vastly over his fingers.

“I could do anything I wanted to you, right now,” he could sense the man kneeling, by his side. “I could pull your pants down and fuck you, right here and you'd be helpless to stop me.”

Wilson cried out, attempted to sit up only to collapse down again.

“Wesley, he was a great fuck,” the man whispered. “So tight. He cried so beautifully. I just wanted you to know, before you died, that your empire will crumble. I'll find that bitch Vanessa and put a bullet in her skull. Same goes for Wesley. But first, I'm going to have him again. I'll fuck him till he's begging to die. Then I'll put him out of his misery.”

Wilson saw black spots before his eyes, struggled to stay conscious.

“No!”

“Fuck you, bitch!” The man said.

Wilson felt himself spiral into unconsciousness.

Tbc....


	9. Chapter 9

Even in REM sleep, Wesley's well attuned ear picked up the familiar ringtone. Instantly awake, he sprung up on his bed, reaching across his bedside table, to unplug the phone and answer.

“You need to come to the prison.” Wesley instantly recognised the voice of the prison warden. He felt his gut twist painfully. The warden calling him could only lead to one conclusion. “There's been an attack on Mr. Fisk.”

Wesley was already up and out of bed, before the warden had even finished his sentence.

“Tell me everything,” he ordered, balancing the mobile between his ear and shoulder, as he started to awkwardly undress out of his pyjamas. He glanced at the alarm clock on his bedside table. It was 3.03am.

“He was found ten minutes ago, in his cell. Five stab wounds to the stomach and chest. He's in surgery now.... it's not good.”

Wesley froze, swallowed.

“Will he live?”

“At the moment he's critical. He lost a lot of blood.”

“Do you know who it was?”

“We're looking into it. But, right now, we have a few suspects but no lead.”

“Here is an idea, I'll just throw it out there,” Wesley made clear his irritation, in his tone. “Look into the prison officers. I don't know how I'd possibly come up with such an incredible idea!”

Leland would have been proud of the levels of sarcasm, to which he'd sunk.

_He can't die. He can't die. He can't die._

“I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

Wesley didn't like to drive, at the best of times, preferring others to do it for him. This time, however, he he planned to not only get in the car, but to also break every road rule, to get to the prison in record time. He just hoped he wouldn't be joining Wilson in any potential afterlife, on the way there.

Not that he believed in the afterlife. That was as unlikely as Wilson Fisk dying.

Wilson Fisk would survive.

*

Ten minutes later, he heard his mobile phone come to life, once more. He risked taking his hand off the wheel, to turn the loudspeaker on.

_He's going to say he's died, isn't he? He's going to-_

He heard the voice-mail message come on, followed by a very familiar voice.

“We need to talk. Right now. I don't know where you've gone. But you need to come back, now.”

How did Matt Murdock even get the number? Wesley shook his head. Why was he even surprised?

Clearly, Matt was in rather tither about something. Wesley was quite certain that it was important. However, not as important as his good friend potentially bleeding to death, behind metal bars.

_Alone. Afraid._

_This wasn't meant to be..._

Wesley swallowed.

Perhaps if he had been a better employee, this wouldn't have happened. Wilson Fisk would not have been in prison, to begin with. After all, he had been the one to allow Matt to go to Hoffman. He should have detained him, while he was still in his apartment.

He had, therefore, allowed Wilson Fisk to go to prison. For what reason? A mere adolescent crush?

No, his mind countered. You weren't thinking straight, at the time. You'd just been raped. Matt was a salve, a band aid, for a massive gaping wound.

_If he dies...._

Wesley pressed down harder into the accelerator.

*

Warden Presley stood just in front of the glassed-in officer's station of the visitor's waiting room, flanked by three officers.

“How is he?” Wesley asked, surrendering his wallet and keys to the officer behind the glass partition, who then pressed a button to open the first set of doors. Once the doors closed, Wesley found himself in a small cubicle, hardly big enough to fit them all inside. The officer, in the thick glass box, pressed another button and the five piled out, into a small courtyard.

“Infirmary is to the back,” Warden Presley stated.

He hadn't answered Wesley's question. This was not good news. As they walked along the moonlit brick path, they passed a series of stunted trees, on barren soil (they really do try and keep it as dreadful a place to be in as possible, Wesley silently mused to himself) before reaching a dismal grey squat building, to the back. One of the guards took out his keys and opened the wrought iron door with fast efficiency. As the four entered the following room, he reached to the wall and switched on the light switch. They appeared to be a storage facility. Rows of shelving contained labelled cartons. Wesley read a few of the bigger boxes as he passed; 'laryngoscope', 'IGEL', 'thermometre', 'BGL'. Lined up, towards the front of the door, were dozens of oxygen cylinders.

Kaboom! Wesley thought, smiling to himself.

“This is actually the side entrance, quicker this way,” the warden said, as they made their way through the labyrinth of shelves, to a locked door at the end.

The officer just before Wesley took out his key, and moved to the door. The next series of events occurred so fast that Wesley had no time to react. He felt his arm twisting up, behind his back, as he was pulled up, back against the officer behind him, cold steel against his temple. The second officer moved forward, took out his gun and shot the warden, in the back of the head. Blood and brain matter instantly sprayed out of the immense hole created, and the warden fell to the ground. The officer by the door then turned and grinned. There was something familiar about the pointed nose, the weak chin.

“Shit! It's happening! It's really happening!” The third officer was bouncing from foot to foot, looking down at the dead warden.

“Which one of you knifed Wilson Fisk?” Wesley asked, feeling his innards start to revolt, to twist and turn with anxiety.

_Calm. Calm. Calm._

The grinning man stepped forward. “Don't you recognise me, Wesley?”

“I know a lot of people.”

The man continued to move forward, into Wesley's body space. He twisted back, away from the man's reaching hand, feeling his stomach rebel, at the hand stroking his cheek.

_No._

“Hey! No one said anything about-” the officer holding him said, disgust clear, in his voice.

“Just hold him!”

Wesley felt the grip tighten in his arms,painfully wrenching them up. The man who had touched him then thankfully stepped back.

“I'm very disappointed. You missed out a few things in your report to the police,” the man's smile was maniacal. “Like the true name of your third attacker.”

Wesley and the man holding him both reacted in exactly the same way. “What?”

“Or how, after I bit you, right there,” he pointed to the area between Wesley's neck and clavicle. “While I was fucking you, you gave this pathetic little broken sob.”

Wesley felt his arms released, the man behind him no longer holding him. He suddenly felt strangely numb, distant from the situation.

_This isn't true. How can this be real?_

“Or how, when Rawlinson fucked you, you were crying to begin with, but then just went silent, after a while. Except for when he came-”

“What the fuck man! This is fucked up! I didn't agree to this!” The officer pushed Wesley aside and pushed the maniacal grinning officer back. “What are you saying, that you're some kind of fucking rapist?”

“When Rawlinson came inside you, screaming with pleasure, you started crying again. I remember, I was kneeling right by your face.”

“It's not true,” Wesley felt as though he'd been punched, hard, in the gut. “No, it's some kind of joke.”

_No. No. Nonononono._

“We don't have to kill him straight away. How about all three of us have some fun, first?”

The angry officer turned and gave Wesley a look of absolute horror.

“You know what? Fuck this! I've changed my mind,” he started to walk towards Wesley, grabbing his shoulder. “Come on, we'll-”

The side of his skull exploded and he fell down, face forward, in almost exactly the same way as the warden had.

“You going to change your mind'?” The shooter said, to the dazed looking third officer.

“No,” he said.

“Good!” He turned back to Wesley, gun raised.

“You're wrong,” Wesley said, simply. “I don’t know why you’re saying this-”

“No, you were wrong! Why did you name Daniel Springer as your third rapist? The man had nothing to do with it!”

“No, it can't be-”

“You couldn't even give me the acknowledgement that I deserved! I was the one who brought down Wilson Fisk's great empire. Rawlinson, he wanted revenge. But it was my idea to use sexual violence as the means. I've seen here, in prison, how it destroys a man. We were never going to kill you. But we wanted you to _think_ that you were going to die.”

It all suddenly fitted together, like a jigsaw puzzle, in his mind. This man's voice. This man's stature, so similar to Daniel Springer. And Daniel Springer did pal around with the other two rapists, so it had made sense, to Wesley, at the time, that he was involved.

Madam Gao. She'd betrayed him. Sent him the wrong person, leading him to believe he was one of the rapists. But, why?

Wesley cried out, in anguish and frustration.

She had wanted Vanessa to die. And she had wanted him to be destroyed. The two people closest to Wilson Fisk.

He found his legs start to buckle and he collapsed down to his knees.

“I kind of like you in that position,” the officer said.

Yes, it was true, wasn't it? The slightly nasal tone to the man's voice, the crossed over front teeth.

Wesley did not think he could experience much more horror. And, in some ways, it was true. The current numbness he was feeling was protecting him, to a large extent, from the reality of being helpless before one of his rapists, once more.

“This time, the plan's changed. With you and Fisk out of the way, there can be a new power base, in Hell's Kitchen. Sorry, but this time, you have to die.”

“Who?” Wesley said..

The man's grin grew wider.

“Who are you the lackey of?” His tongue felt dry against the roof of his mouth, as he spoke.

“You already know.”

Wesley felt that he did. It was pretty obvious who had been playing both him and Wilson Fisk.

“Madam Gao won't allow you to live. You must know this. She'll dispose of you, as she has everyone else.” Wesley felt the strength to start to rise, to his feet.

“I have a greater purpose. I realise that now. Unfortunately, you are not part of it. Nor is Wilson Fisk.”

“Was my attack truly your idea, or hers?”

“Fisk never had control over the police force. At least, not as much as he'd thought,” the other officer spoke up, behind Wesley.

“Gao did speak to me, and Rawlinson. She didn't tell us what to do. But we realised that you were Fisk's greatest strength. And, as such, had to be taken out. You have to admit that it worked.”

No, Wesley thought. It didn't. Wilson Fisk went down, true, But it was more because of Matt Murdock's interference.

“So, you're going to kill me?”

Wesley considered his options. Two armed officers, who would not hesitate to shoot him, if necessary.

Matt Murdock. Would he know where Wesley was? Surely so. He had to stall.

“What do you think, Riley?” the officer behind him asked.

_Rapist Riley. Hardey har._

“Who was Daniel Springer to Gao?”

Riley shrugged. “That, I don't know.”

“And Rawlinson's brother, Frank?”

“Frank?” Riley laughed. “He wanted in. Told us to film it. Yes, I heard about your little dalliance, a few nights back.”

_Dalliance? Is that what you call attempted rape and kidnap? Freak!_

The officer raised the weapon. “How about you just get back on your knees?”

_No. This wasn't going to happen. Not again._

Wesley tried a different tact,as he went down onto his knees. “I... missed this....”

This did cause the man pause. “What?”

“I... wanted you.”

“Sick freak!” The other man said.

_No. I'm not the freak. Not me._

“The feel of you, inside me,” Wesley felt sickened, at his own words but, if his hunch was correct... “I like it... rough...”

Riley's expression went from bemusement to something else, something darker.

“It was a... fantasy, to have three men-”

“Shut up!”

Wesley tasted blood, as the hand came out, across his face. Another lay into his stomach, winding him. Well, he thought, at least this was better than being raped again.

“I'm not a fucking faggot!f” Riley shouted. This time, the slap sent Wesley sideways to the ground.

“I need it again. Please...”

That was when the second officer came up, unzipping his fly and taking his erection out.

“Fine! Fag, if you want it so much.”

Wesley noticed that his gun hung loosely by his side.

“Alright, alright!” He went up onto his knees, as the man came before him.

“Make it good,” he said.

Wesley nodded then quickly reached forward and grabbed the gun out of the officer's hand, firing up, into his chest, then swinging around and shooting Riley, who had been reaching for his own holstered weapon. His chest sprayed with blood. Wesley stood up, and walked over to the downed man, who lay, gasping for air, looking up at him, with wide, terrified eyes. Wesley knelt by him, watching the life start to drain from his body.

“You have failed.” He said, simply, just before the man's countenance took on a grey, wax-like appearance. Wesley grabbed the keys out of his pocket and flicked through them. After the sixth try, he found the one for the door, and stumbled out to a rather long corridor. He rushed up it and turned right, to another locked door. After the seventh try, he opened it, to what appeared to be a waiting room area, with another small guards' cubicle, a red emergency button to the side. He pressed the button and the harsh shrill of a siren filled the air.

*  
Matt came to the prison ten minutes after the police arrived, certainly far later than Wesley had anticipated. Before then, the police had been insistent on talking to him.

“It was self-defence. I won't say anything more, until my lawyer, Matt Murdock, comes here.”

As soon as Matt stepped into the small holding room that the police had left him in, Wesley felt immense relief sweep over himself. Matt appeared a little flushed. He stepped up to Wesley, placing a hand on his arm.

“You alright?”

Wesley considered the question. “No, not really.”

“Foggy is on his way,” Matt said, as he moved away to pull up a chair in front of Wesley.

“What happened?”

Wesley paused. _How to even begin?_

  
“Wilson Fisk has been attacked. He's in surgery right now.”

“I heard... Look, there's something I need to tell you,” Matt leant further forward. “Tonight, I was attacked. Or, at least, someone attempted to attack me. It was Frank. This time, I was wise to his attempted tasering. I managed to disarm him, then get some information off him. He told me that there was to be a co-ordinated attack. Me, you and Fisk. They were going to kidnap me and you and kill Fisk.”

“That was why you desperate to contact me,” Wesley realised.

“I tried to get more information out of him, as to specifics, when a shot rang out. I guess your Bullseye fulfilled his contract to you. Frank was killed instantly.”

Wesley considered his new information. “Frank's an idiot for coming back into the city.”

“So, what happened tonight? I'm assuming you came here, after hearing about Fisk.”

“I defended myself. We were going through the storage room to the back, when one of the officers shot the warden. He threatened to rape and kill me. One of the other officers wasn't happy with the sexual assault part, so he shot and killed him too. I managed to wrestle the gun off one of them and shot them both. I defended myself. They were determined to rape me. To kill me.”

He could sense Matt's extreme blind focus, directly on him.

“You're telling the truth, but there is something more.”

Wesley paused, an odd, shameful flush gracing his cheeks.

“The officer who shot the warden and the other officer claimed to be one of my rapists.”

*

“DNA was taken but was never actually matched up with any of the men you accused!” Foggy said, with a slight amount of mad exhilaration in his tone. “We'll get this man's DNA and we'll prove that he was, indeed, one of the men who raped you.”

Wesley could not help but feel a little perplexed. Foggy clearly believed him. He looked at Matt, who gave a barely perceptible shrug.

“This is a clear case of self-defence. This man had just shot, and killed, two men in front of you. He had already attacked you in the past, and was threatening to cause you harm, once more. You had no choice but to defend yourself. An action which I would defy anyone to challenge.”

“Sounds like you're already coming up with your closing argument,” Matt said, a slight smile uplifting his lips.

“Hoping it won't come to that,” Foggy said.

Tbc...


End file.
